THE  LIBRARY 


OF 


THE 


OF 


LOS 


UNIVERSITY 
CALIFORNIA 
ANGELES 


I   GO  A-FISHING 


BY 


W.  C.   PRIME 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER     &     BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS. 
I  8  7  3- 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at   Washington. 


SH 

"P?0^. 


HIC 

NULLA    VOX     MONTANI     FLUMINIS 

NUMERUS  NULLUS  AQUARUM 

TALIS  QUALIS  EST 

ILLIC 

UBI  IN   RIPIS  SACRIS  JUCUNDITATE 

PERENNI    QUIESCUNT   QUORUM    IN 

MEMORIAM  ALMAM  SCRIPTUM  EST 

HOC  VOLUMEN. 


894-155 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I.    WHY    PETER    WENT    A- FISHING.  . 9 

II.    AT   THE    ROOKERY 22 

III.    1SKANDER    EFFENDI.  .  . 37 

IV.    MORNING    TROUT  ;    EVENING    TALK 63 

V.    SUNDAY    MORNING    AND    EVENING 82 

VI.    AN    EXPLORING    EXPEDITION 1 09 

VII.    THE    ST.  REGIS    WATERS    IN    OLD    TIMES 122 

VIII.    THE    ST.  REGIS    WATERS    NOW 138 

IX.    CONNECTICUT   STREAMS 157 

X.    AMONG    THE    FRANCONIA    MOUNTAINS 178 

XL    ON    A    MOUNTAIN    BROOK 208 

XII.    ON    ECHO    LAKE 235 

XIII.  THREE    BOTTLES    OF    CLARET 253 

XIV.  WHAT    FLIES    TO    CAST    ON    A    SUNDAY 287 

XV.    IN    NORTHERN    NEW    HAMPSHIRE 301 

XVI.    AT    THE    FERNS '. 321 

XVII.    GOING    HOME 351 


WILL  YOU  GO? 

GOOD  FRIEND,  you  have  read  the  title-page  hereof,  tell 
ing  you  that  I  propose  to  go  a-fishing,  and  the  table  of 
contents,  which  has  given  you  some  idea  as  to  where  I 
think  of  going.  If  you  turn  over  this  leaf  it  will  imply 
that  you  accept  the  invitation  to  go  with  me.  But  be 
warned  in  time.  The  best  of  anglers  does  not  always 
find  fish;  and  the  most  skillful  casting  of  a  fly  does  not 
always  bring  up  trout.  Often  chubs  and  perch  and  red- 
fins — yea,  even  pickerel  and  pumpkin-seeds — rise  to  the 
fly,  and  you  may  be  thereat  disgusted.  You  can  not  be 
sure  that  you  will  find  what  you  want,  or  what  you  will 
like,  if  you  go  beyond  this  page.  If,  however,  you  have 
the  true  angler's  spirit,  and  will  go  a-fishing  prepared  to 
have  a  good  day  of  it,  even  though  the  weather  turn  out 
vile  and  the  sport  wretched,  then  turn  over  the  leaf  and 
let  us  be  starting. 


I   GO  A-FISHING. 


I. 

WHY  PETER  WENT  A-FISHING. 

THE  light  of  the  long  Galilee  day  was  dying  out  beyond 
the  peaks  of  Lebanon.  Far  in  the  north,  gleaming  like  a 
star,  the  snowy  summit  of  Hermon  received  the  latest  ray 
of  the  twilight  before  gloom  and  night  should  descend  on 
Gennesaret.  The  white  walls  of  Bethsaida  shone  gray 
and  cold  on  the  northern  border  of  the  sea,  looking  to  the 
whiter  palace  of  Herod  at  its  farther  extremity,  under 
whose  very  base  began  the  majestic  sweep  of  the  Jordan. 
Perhaps  the  full  moon  was  rising  over  the  desolate  hills 
of  the  Gadarenes,  marking  the  silver  pathway  of  the  Lord 
across  the  holy  sea.  The  stars  that  had  glorified  his 
birth  in  the  Bethlehem  cavern,  that  had  shone  on  the  gar- 
den agony  and  the  garden  tomb,  were  shining  on  the  hill- 
sides that  had  been  sanctified  by  his  footsteps.  The 
young  daughter  of  Jairus  looked  from  her  casement  in 
Capernaum  on  the  silver  lake,  and  remembered  the  solemn 
grandeur  of  that  brow  which  now,  they  told  her,  had  been 
torn  with  thorns.  The  son  of  her  of  Nain  climbed  the 
rocks  which  tower  above  his  father's  place  of  burial,  and 
gazed  down  into  the  shining  water,  and  pondered  whether 


10  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

he  who  had  been  murdered  by  the  Jerusalem  Hebrews  had 
not  power  to  say  unto  himself  "  Arise." 

Never  was  night  more  pure,  never  was  sea  more  win- 
ning ;  never  were  the  hearts  of  men  moved  by  deeper 
emotions  than  on  that  night  and  by  that  sea  when  Peter 
and  John,  and  other  of  the  disciples,  were  waiting  for  the 
Master. 

Peter  said,  "  I  go  a-fishing."  John  and  Thomas,  and 
James  and  Nathanael,  and  the  others,  said,  "We  will  go 
with  you,"  and  they  went. 

Some  commentators  have  supposed  and  taught  that, 
when  Peter  said,  "I  go  a-fishing,"  he  announced  the  inten- 
tion of  resuming,  at  least  temporarily,  his  old  mode  of  life, 
returning  to  the  ways  in  which  he  had  earned  his  daily 
bread  from  childhood  ;  that  his  Master  was  gone,  and  he 
thought  that  nothing  remained  for  him  but  the  old  hard 
life  of  toil,  and  the  sad  labor  of  living. 

But  this  seems  scarcely  credible,  or  consistent  with  the 
circumstances.  The  sorrow  which  had  weighed  down  the 
disciples  when  gathered  in  Jerusalem  on  that  darkest 
Sabbath  day  of  all  the  Hebrew  story,  had  given  way  to 
joy  and  exultation  in  the  morning  when  the  empty  tomb 
revealed  the  hitherto  hidden  glory  of  the  resurrection,  joy 
which  was  tenfold  increased  by  an  interview  with  the  risen 
Lord,  and  confirmed  by  his  direction,  sending  them  into 
Galilee  to  await  him  there.  And  thus  it  seems  incredible 
that  Peter  and  John — John  the  beloved — could  have  been 
in  any  such  gloom  and  despondency  as  to  think  of  re- 
suming their  old  employment  at  this  time,  when  they  were 
actually  waiting  for  his  coming  who  had  promised  to  meet 
them. 

Probably  they  were  on  this  particular  evening  weary 
with  earnest  expectancy,  not  yet  satisfied ;  tired  of  waiting 


HAVE    YOU    ANY    FISH?  II 

and  longing  and  looking  up  the  hill-side  on  the  Jerusa- 
lem road  for  his  appearance;  and  I  have  no  doubt  that, 
when  this  weariness  became  exhausting,  Peter  sought  on 
the  water  something  of  the  old  excitement  that  he  had 
known  from  boyhood,  and  that  to  all  the  group  it  seemed 
a  fitting  way  in  which  to  pass  the  long  night  before  them, 
otherwise  to  be  weary  as  well  as  sleepless. 

If  one  could  have  the  story  of  that  night  of  fishing,  of 
the  surrounding  scenes,  the  conversation  in  the  boat,  the 
unspoken  thoughts  of  the  fishermen,  it  would  make  the 
grandest  story  of  fishing  that  the  world  has  ever  known. 
Its  end  was  grand  when  in  the  morning  the  voice  of  the 
Master  came  over  the  sea,  asking  them  the  familiar  ques- 
tion, in  substance  the  same  which  they,  like  all  fishermen, 
had  heard  a  thousand  times,  "  Have  you  any  fish  ?"* 

*  John  xxi.,  5  :  "  Children,  have  ye  any  meat  ?"  This  translation, 
though  literal,  does  not  convey  the  idea  of  the  original.  The  Greek 
is  IlaicJia,  p\  ri  irpoafyayiov  t\(Tt ;  and  the  word  Trpoff^ayiov  is  used 
here,  as  in  the  best  of  the  later  Greek  authors,  to  signify  the  kind  of 
eatable  article  which  the  persons  addressed  were  then  seeking.  Un- 
willing, in  a  matter  of  such  importance  (for  every  word  of  the  Lord 
is  of  the  highest  importance)  to  trust  my  own  limited  knowledge  of 
Greek,  I  read  this  page  to  one  of  the  most  trustworthy  and  eminent 
American  scholars  and  divines  one  evening  in  my  library,  and  the 
next  morning  received  from  him  this  note,  which  I  take  the  liberty 
of  appending : 

"October  2ist,  1872. 

"Mv  DEAR  SIR, — You  are  quite  right  in  your  interpretation  of 
John  xxi.,  5.  '  Meat,'  in  Luke  xxiv.,  41,  is  simply  food,  /3pw<r<juoc,  any 
thing  to  eat.  But,  in  John  xxi.,  5,  the  word  is  TrpoaQaytov,  something 
eatable  (but  especially  flesh  or  fish)  in  addition  to  (Trpog)  bread,  which 
in  Palestine  was  then,  as  now,  the  chief  diet  of  the  people.  Had  the 
disciples  been  out  hunting,  the  meaning  would  have  been  '  Have  you 
any  game  ?'  As  they  had  been  all  night  fishing,  the  meaning  was, 
and  they  so  understood  it,  '  Have  you  any  fish  ?' 

"  Yours  very  truly,  .'' 


12  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

I  am  afraid  that  there  was  something  of  the  human 
nature  of  disappointed  fishermen  in  the  Galilaeans  that 
morning  when  they  saw  the  gray  dawn  and  had  taken  no 
fish,  for  their  reply  was  in  much  the  same  tone  that  the 
unsatisfied  angler  in  our  day  often  uses  in  answer  to  that 
same  inquiry.  It  is  just  possible  that  John,  the  gentle 
John,  was  the  respondent.  It  may  have  been  the  some- 
what sensitive  Peter,  or  possibly  two  or  three  of  them  to- 
gether, who  uttered  that  curt  "  No,"  and  then  relapsed 
into  silence. 

But  when  the  musical  voice  of  the  Master  came  again 
over  the  water,  and  they  cast  where  he  bade  them,  John 
remembered  that  other  day  and  scene,  very  similar  to 
this,  before  they  were  the  disciples  of  the  Lord,  when  he 
went  with  them  in  their  boat  and  gave  them  the  same 
command,  with  the  same  miraculous  result,  and  said  to 
Simon,  "  Henceforth  thou  shalt  catch  men." 

The  memory  of  this  scene  is  not  unfitting  to  the  mod- 
ern angler.  Was  it  possible  to  forget  it  when  I  first  wet 
a  line  in  the  water  of  the  Sea  of  Galilee  ?  Is  it  any  less 
likely  to  come  b^ck  to  me  on  any  lake  among  the  hills 
when  the  twilight  hides  the  mountains,  and  overhead  the 
same  stars  look  on  our  waters  that  looked  on  Gennesaret, 
so  that  the  soft  night  air  feels  on  one's  forehead  like  the 
clews  of  Hermon  ? 

I  do  not  think  that  this  was  the  last,  though  it  be  the 
last  recorded  fishing  done  by  Peter  or  by  John.  I  don't 
believe  these  Galilee  fishermen  ever  lost  the  love  for  their 
old  employment.  It  was  a  memorable  fact  for  them  that 
the  Master  had  gone  a-fishing  with  them  on  the  day  that 
he  called  them  to  be  his  disciples  ;  and  this  latest  meeting 
with  him  in  Galilee,  the  commission  to  Peter,  "  Feed  my 
sheep,"  and  the  words  so  startling  to  John,  "  If  I  will  that 


THE    LOVE   OF    FISHING.  13 

he  tarry  till  I  come  " — words  which  he  must  have  recalled 
when  he  uttered  that  last  longing  cry,  "  Even  so  come, 
Lord  " — all  these  were  associated  with  that  last  recorded 
fishing  scene  on  the  waters  of  Gennesaret. 

Fishermen  never  lose  their  love  for  the  employment. 
And  it  is  notably  true  that  the  men  who  fish  for  a  living 
love  their  work  quite  as  much  as  those  who  fish  for  pleas- 
ure love  their  sport.  Find  an  old  fisherman,  if  you  can, 
in  any  sea-shore  town,  who  does  not  enjoy  his  fishing. 
There  are  days,  without  doubt,  when  he  does  not  care  to 
go  out,  when  he  would  rather  that  need  did  not  drive 
him  to  the  sea ;  but  keep  him  at  home  a  few  days,  or  set 
him  at  other  labor,  and  you  shall  see  that  he  longs  for  the 
toss  of  the  swell  on  the  reef,  and  the  sudden  joy  of  a  strong 
pull  on  his  line.  Drift  .up  alongside  of  him  in  your  boat 
when  he  is  quietly  at  his  work,  without  his  knowing  that 
you  are  near.  You  can  do  it  easily.  He  is  pondering 
solemnly  a  question  of  deep  importance  to  him,  and  he 
has  not  stirred  eye,  or  hand,  or  head  for  ten  minutes.  But 
see  that  start  and  sharp  jerk  of  his  elbow,  and  now  hear 
him  talk,  not  to  you — to  the  fish.  He  exults  as  he  brings 
him  in,  yet  mingles  his  exultation  with  something  of  pity 
as  he  baits  his  hook  for  another.  Could  you  gather  the 
words  that  he  has  in  many  years  flung  on  the  sea-winds, 
you  would  have  a  history  of  his  life  and  adventures,  min- 
gled with  very  much  of  his  inmost  thinking,  for  he  tells 
much  to  the  sea  and  the  fish  that  he  would  never  whisper 
in  human  ears.  Thus  the  habit  of  going  a-fishing  always 
modifies  the  character.  The  angler,  I  think,  dreams  of 
his  favorite  sport  oftener  than  other  men  of  theirs.  There 
is  a  peculiar  excitement  in  it,  which  perhaps  arises  from 
somewhat  of  the  same  causes  which  make  the  interest  in 
searching  for  ancient  treasures,  opening  Egyptian  tombs, 


14  I   GO   A -FISHING. 

and  digging  into  old  ruins.  One  does  not  know  what  is 
under  the  surface.  There  may  be  something  or  there 
may  be  nothing.  He  tries,  and  the  rush  of  something 
startles  every  nerve.  Let  no  man  laugh  at  a  comparison 
of  trout-fishing  with  antiquarian  researches.  I  know  a 
man  who  has  done  a  great  deal  of  both,  and  who  scarcely 
knows  which  is  most  absorbing  or  most  remunerating ; 
for  each  enriches  mind  and  body,  each  gratifies  the  most 
refined  tastes,  each  becomes  a  passion  unless  the  pursuer 
guard  his  enthusiasm  and  moderate  his  desires. 

It  is  nothing  strange  that  men  who  throw  their  flies  for 
trout  should  dream  of  it. 

As  long  ago  as  when  Theocritus  wrote  his  Idyls,  men 
who  caught  fish  dreamed  of  their  sport  or  work,  whichev- 
er it  was.  It  can  not,  indeed,  be  said  that  the  Greek  fish- 
erman dreamed  of  the  mere  excitement  of  fishing,  for  to 
him  the  sea  was  a  place  of  toil,  and  his  poor  hut  was  but 
a  miserable  hovel.  He  fished  for  its  reward  in  gold  ;  and 
he  dreamed  that  he  took  a  fish  of  gold,  whose  value  would 
relieve  him  from  the  pains  and  toils  of  his  life,  and  when 
he  was  awake  he  feared  that  he  had  bound  himself  by  an 
oath  in  his  dream,  and  his  wise  companion — philosopher 
then,  as  all  anglers  were,  and  are,  and  will  be  evermore — 
relieved  him  by  a  brief  sermon,  wherein  lies  a  moral. 
Look  it  up,  and  read  it.  What  angler  does  not  dream  of 
great  fish  rising  with  heavy  roll  and  plunge  to  seize  the 
fly  ?  What  dreams  those  are ! 

Is  there  any  thing  strange,  then,  in  the  question  wheth- 
er Peter  in  his  slumber  never  dreamed  of  the  great  fish 
in  the  Sea  of  Galilee,  or  the  gentle  John,  in  his  old  age 
and  weary  longing  for  the  end,  did  not  sometimes  recall 
in  sleep  other  and  more  earthly  scenes  than  the  sub- 
lime visions  of  inspiration  ?  Do  you  doubt — I  do  not — 


CHRISTOPHER    NORTH.  15 

that  his  great  soul,  over  which  had  swept  floods  of  emo- 
tion such  as  few  other  human  souls  have  ever  experi- 
enced, was  yet  so  fresh  and  young,  even  in  the  days  of 
rock-bound  Patmos,  and  long  after  at  Ephesus,  when  he 
counted  a  hundred  years  of  life,  that  in  sleep  he  some- 
times sat  in  his  boat,  rocked  by  the  waves  of  the  blue 
Gennesaret,  his  black  locks  shaking  in  the  breeze  that 
came  down  from  Hermon,  his  eyes  wandering  from  Ta- 
bor to  Gilboa,  from  Gilboa  to  Lebanon,  from  Lebanon  to 
the  wild  hills  of  the  Gadarenes,  while  he  caught  the  shy 
but  beautiful  fish  that  were  born  in  the  Jordan,  and  lived 
in  the  waters  that  were  by  Capernaum  and  Bethsaida? 

To  you,  my  friend,  who  know  nothing  of  the  gentle  and 
purifying  associations  of  the  angler's  life,  these  may  seem 
strange  notions — to  some,  indeed,  they  may  even  sound 
profane.  But  the  angler  for  whom  I  write  will  not  so 
think  them,  nor  may  I,  who,  thinking  these  same  thoughts, 
have  cast  my  line  on  the  Sea  of  Galilee,  and  taken  the 
descendants  of  old  fish  in  the  swift  waters  of  the  Jordan. 

Trout-fishing  is  employment  for  all  men,  of  all  minds. 
It  tends  to  dreamy  life,  and  it  leads  to  much  thought  and 
reflection.  I  do  not  know  in  any  book  or  story  of  mod- 
ern times  a  more  touching  and  exquisite  scene  than  that 
which  Mrs.  Gordon  gives  in  her  admirable  biography  of 
her  father,  the  leonine  Christopher  North,  when  the  fee- 
ble old  man  waved  his  rod  for  the  last  time  over  the  Doc- 
hart,  where  he  had  taken  trout  from  his  boyhood.  Shall 
we  ever  look  upon  his  like  again  ?  He  was  a  giant 
among  men  of  intellectual  greatness.  Of  all  anglers 
since  apostolic  days,  he  was  the  greatest ;  and  there  is 
no  angler  who  does  not  look  to  him  with  veneration 
and  love,  while  the  English  language  will  forever  possess 
higher  value  that  he  has  lived  and  written.  It  would  be 


l6  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

thought  very  strange  were  one  to  say  that  Wilson  would 
never  have  been  half  the  man  he  was  were  he  not  an 
angler.  But  he  would  have  said  so  himself,  and  I  am  not 
sure  but  he  did  say  so,  and,  whether  he  did  or  not,  I  have 
no  doubt  of  the  truth  of  the  saying. 

It  has  happened  to  me  to  fish  the  Dochart  from  the 
old  inn  at  Luib  down  to  the  bridge,  and  the  form  of  the 
great  Christopher  was  forever  before  me  along  the  bank 
and  in  the  rapids,  making  his  last  casts  as  Mrs.  Gordon 
here  so  tenderly  describes  him : 

"  Had  my  father  been  able  to  endure  the  fatigue,  we 
too  would  have  had  something  to  boast  of;  but  he  was 
unable  to  do  more  than  loiter  by  the  river-side  close  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  inn — never  without  his  rod.  *  *  * 
How  now  do  his  feet  touch  the  heather  ?  Not  as  of  old 
with  a  bound,  but  with  slow  and  unsteady  step,  supported 
on  the  one  hand  by  his  stick,  while  the  other  carries  his 
rod.  The  breeze  gently  moves  his  locks,  no  longer  glit- 
tering with  the  light  of  life,  but  dimmed  by  its  decay. 
Yet  are  his  shoulders  broad  and  unbent.  The  lion-like 
presence  is  somewhat  softened  down,  but  not  gone.  He 
surely  will  not  venture  into  the  deeps  of  the  water,  for 
only  one  hand  is  free  for  '  a  cast,'  and  those  large  stones, 
now  slippery  with  moss,  are  dangerous  stumbling-blocks 
in  the  way.  Besides,  he  promised  his  daughters  he 
would  not  wade,  but,  on  the  contrary,  walk  quietly  with 
them  by  the  river's  edge,  there  gliding  '  at  its  own  sweet 
will.'  Silvery  bands  of  pebbled  shore  leading  to  loamy- 
colored  pools,  dark  as  the  glow  of  a  southern  eye,  how 
could  he  resist  the  temptation  of  near  approach  ?  In  he 
goes,  up  to  the  ankles,  then  to  the  knees,  tottering  every 
other  step,  but  never  falling.  Trout  after  trout  he  catch- 
es, small  ones  certainly,  but  plenty  of  them.  Into  his 
pocket  with  them,  all  this  time  manoeuvring  in  the  most 
skillful  manner  both  stick  and  rod  :  until  weary,  he  is 
obliged  to  rest  on  the  bank,  sitting  with  his  feet  in  the 
water,  laughing  at  his  daughters'  horror,  and  obstinately 


CHRISTOPHER    NORTH.  17 

continuing  the  sport  in  spite  of  all  remonstrance.  At 
last  he  gives  in  and  retires.  Wonderful  to  say,  he  did 
not  seem  to  suffer  from  these  imprudent  liberties." 

And  Mrs.  Gordon  gives  us  another  exquisite  picture  in 
the  very  last  days  of  the  grand  old  Christopher : 

*  *  *  "  And  then  he  gathered  around  him,  when  the 
spring  mornings  brought  gay  jets  of  sunshine  into  the 
little  room  where  he  lay,  the  relics  of  a  youthful  passion. 
one  that  with  him  never  grew  old.  It  was  an  affecting 
sight  to  see  him  busy,  nay,  quite  absorbed  with  the  fish- 
ing-tackle scattered  about  his  bed,  propped  up  with  pil- 
lows— his  noble  head,  yet  glorious  with  its  flowing  locks, 
carefully  combed  by  attentive  hands,  and  falling  on  each 
side  of  his  unfaded  face.  How  neatly  he  picked  out 
each  elegantly  dressed  fly  from  its  little  bunch,  drawing 
it  out  with  trembling  hand  along  the  white  coverlet,  and 
then,  replacing  it  in  his  pocket-book,  he  would  tell  ever 
and  anon  of  the  streams  he  used  to  fish  in  of  old,  and  of 
the  deeds  he  had  performed  in  his  childhood  and  youth." 

There  is  no  angler  who  will  not  appreciate  the  beauty 
of  these  pictures,  and  I  do  not  believe  any  one  of  us,  re- 
taining his  mental  faculties,  will  fail  in  extremes!  age  to 
recall  with  the  keenest  enjoyment  of  which  memory  is 
capable  the  scenes  of  our  happiest  sport. 

Was  Peter  less  or  more  than  man  ?  Was  John  not  of 
like  passions  with  ourselves  ?  Believe  me,  the  old  dweller 
on  Patmos,  the  old  Bishop  of  Ephesus,  lingering  between 
the  memories  of  his  Lord  in  Galilee  and  the  longing  for 
him  to  come  quickly  yet  again,  saw  often  before  his  dim 
eyes  the  ripple  on  Gennesaret,  and  the  flashing  scales  of 
the  silver  fish  that  had  gladdened  him  many  a  time  be- 
fore he  knew  the  Master. 

I  have  sometimes  thought  it  more  than  possible  that 
the  young  son  of  Joseph  and  Mary  knew  the  Galilee  fish- 

B 


l8  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

ermen  before  he  called  them  to  be  his  apostles.  There 
is  nothing  to  forbid,  but  much  to  fortify  the  idea  in  the 
account  which  Luke  gives  us  of  his  entering  into  the 
ship  of  Simon,  and  asking  him  to  push  off  from  the  shore 
while  he  taught  the  people  ;  and  still  more  in  the  subse- 
quent incidents,  when,  like  one  who  had  often  been  with 
them  before,  he  told  Simon  to  go  out  into  deep  water 
and  cast  for  fish.  He  may  indeed  have  been  a  stran- 
ger, who  impressed  Simon  now  for  the  first  time  with  his 
noble  presence,  and  won  him  by  his  eloquent  teachings, 
but  I  incline  to  the  thought  that  this  was  far  from  the 
first  meeting  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth  with  the  fishermen  of 
Gennesaret.  Nazareth  was  not  far  away  from  the  sea.  I 
remember  a  morning's  walk  from  the  village  to  the  sum- 
mit of  Tabor,  whence  I  first  saw  the  blue  beauty  of  that 
lake  of  holy  memory.  How  his  childhood  and  youth 
were  passed  we  know  not ;  but  that  he  wandered  over 
the  hills,  and  walked  down  to  the  lake  shore,  and  min- 
gled more  or  less  with  the  people  among  whom  his  life 
went  peacefully  on  until  he  entered  upon  his  public  mis- 
sion, can  not  be  doubted. 

It  is  one  of  the  most  pleasant  and  absorbing  thoughts 
which  possess  the  traveler  in  those  regions,  that  the  child 
Christ  was  a  child  among  the  hills  of  Galilee,  and  loved 
them  with  all  the  gentle  fervor  of  his  human  soul.  Doubt- 
less many  times  before  he  had  challenged  the  fisher  on 
the  sea  with  that  same  question  which  we  anglers  so  fre^ 
quently  hear,  "  Have  you  taken  any  fish  ?"  He  may  have 
often  seen  Peter  and  the  others  at  their  work.  Perhaps 
sometimes  he  had  talked  with  them,  and,  it  may  well  be, 
gone  with  them  on  the  sea,  and  helped  them.  For  they 
were  kindly  men,  as  fishermen  are  always  in  all  countries, 
and  they  loved  to  talk  of  their  work,  and  of  a  thousand 


APOSTOLIC    FISHERMEN.  19 

other  things  of  which,  in  their  contemplative  lives,  they 
had  thought  without  talking. 

In  an  age  when  few  men  were  learned,  and,  in  fact, 
few  in  any  grade  or  walk  of  life  could  even  read  or  write, 
1  am  inclined  to  think  there  was  no  class  from  whom 
better  trained  intellects  could  be  selected  than  from 
among  these  thoughtful  fishermen.  They  had  doubtless 
the  Oriental  characteristics  of  calmness  and  reserve,  and 
these  had  been  somewhat  modified  by  their  employment. 
Given  to  sober  reflection,  patient  to  investigate,  quick  to 
trust  when  their  faith  was  demanded  by  one  whom  they 
respected,  slow  to  act  when  haste  was  not  necessary, 
prompt  and  swift  on  any  emergency,  filled  full  of  love 
for  nature,  all  harsh  elements  of  character  softened  into 
a  deep  benevolence  and  pity  and  love — such  are  the 
fishermen  of  our  day,  and  such,  I  doubt  not,  were  the 
fishermen  of  old.  They  were  men  with  whom  a  mother 
would  willingly  trust  her  young  boy,  to  whom  he  would 
become  attached,  with  whom  he  would  enjoy  talking, 
and,  above  all,  who  would  pour  out  their  very  souls  in 
talking  with  him,  when  among  their  fellow- men  they 
would  be  reserved,  diffident,  and  silent.  They  were  men, 
too,  who  would  recognize  in  the  boy  the  greatness  of  his 
lineage,  the  divine  shining  out  from  his  eyes.  Who  shall 
prevail  to  imagine  the  pleasantness  of  those  days  on  the 
sea  when  Peter  and  John  talked  with  the  holy  boy,  as 
they  waited  for  the  fish,  and  their  boat  rocked  to  the 
winds  that  came  down  from  Lebanon.  Who  can  say 
that  there  were  not  some  memories  of  those  days,  as 
well  as  of  the  others  when  we  know  Christ  was  with 
him,  which,  when  he  was  tired  of  the  waiting,  led  Peter 
to  say,  "  I  go  a-fishing." 

I  believe  that  he  went  a-fishing  because  he  felt  exactly 


20  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

as  I  have  felt,  exactly  as  scores  of  men  have  felt  who 
knew  the  charm  of  the  gentle  art,  as  we  now  call  it.  No 
other  has  such  attraction.  Men  love  hunting,  love  boat- 
ing, love  games  of  varied  sorts,  love  many  amusements 
of  many  kinds,  but  I  do  not  know  of  any  like  fishing  to 
which  men  go  for  relief  in  weariness,  for  rest  after  labor, 
for  solace  in  sorrow.  I  can  well  understand  how  those 
sad  men,  not  yet  fully  appreciating  the  grand  truth  that 
their  Master  had  risen  from  the  dead,  believing,  yet 
doubting,  how  even  Thomas,  who  had  so  lately  seen  the 
wounds  and  heard  the  voice,  how  even  John,  loving  and 
loved,  who  had  rejoiced  a  week  ago  in  Jerusalem  at  the 
presence  of  the  triumphant  Lord,  how  Peter,  always  fear- 
ful, how  Nathanael,  full  of  impulsive  faith,  how  each  and 
all  of  them,  wearied  with  their  long  waiting  for  him  on 
the  shore  of  the  sea,  sought  comfort  and  solace,  oppor- 
tunity and  incitement  to  thought  in  going  a-fishing. 

I  can  understand  it,  for,  though  far  be  it  from  me  to 
compare  any  weariness  or  sorrow  of  mine  with  theirs,  I 
have  known  that  there  was  no  better  way  in  which  I  could 
find  rest.  And  I  have  gathered  together  the  chapters  of 
this  book,  if  perchance  it  may  serve  as  a  companion  to 
any  one  who  would  go  a-fishing  if  he  could,  but  can  not, 
or  help  another  who  has  gone  a-fishing  to  enjoy  the  rest 
which  he  has  thus  obtained.  I  have  written  for  lovers  of 
the  gentle  art,  and  if  this  which  I  have  written  fall  into 
other  hands,  let  him  who  reads  understand  that  it  is  not 
for  him.  We  who  go  a-fishing  are  a  peculiar  people. 
Like  other  men  and  women  in  many  respects,  we  are  like 
one  another,  and  like  no  others,  in  other  respects.  We 
understand  each  other's  thoughts  by  an  intuition  of  which 
you  know  nothing.  We  cast  our  flies  on  many  waters, 
where  memories  and  fancies  and  facts  rise,  and  we  take 


ANGLERS     PECULIARITIES.  21 

them  and  show  them  to  each  other,  and,  small  or  large, 
we  are  content  with  our  catch.  So  closely  are  we  alike 
in  some  regards,  so  different  from  the  rest  of  the  world  in 
these  respects,  and  so  important  are  these  characteristics 
of  mind  and  of  thought,  that  I  sometimes  think  no  man 
but  one  of  us  can  properly  understand  the  mind  of  Peter, 
or  appreciate  the  glorious  visions  of  the  son  of  Zebedee. 


II. 

AT  THE  ROOKERY. 

IT  can  not  be  supposed  that  one  who  has  not  been  ac- 
customed to  it  should  find  that  refreshment  in  going 
a-fishing  which  is  so  welcome  to  him  who  knows  it  by 
old  experience ;  yet  it  is  a  habit  of  body  and  mind  easily 
cultivated,  and  much  to  be  commended.  Every  hard- 
working man  should  have  a  hobby.  This  is  sound  doc- 
trine. Especially  should  the  professional  man  and  the 
active  business  man  remember  this.  He  whose  mind  is 
occupied  during  the  day  with  severe  labor  will  find  it  im- 
possible at  evening  to  abandon  his  work.  The  responsi- 
bilities of  the  day  will  weigh  on  him  at  night;  he  can  not 
rid  himself  of  them.  Social  enjoyment,  conversation,  or- 
dinary amusement,  and  recreation  will  serve  but  a  tem- 
porary purpose,  and  can  not  be  relied  on  to  divert  the 
mind  from  anxiety  and  care.  Try  the  experiment.  Take 
to  collecting  engravings  or  coins  or  shells,  or  any  thing 
else,  so  it  be  a  subject  to  interest  you,  and  make  a  hobby 
of  it.  It  will  absorb  the  mind,  enable  it  to  throw  off  all 
business  thought,  afford  sensible  relief  and  refreshment, 
and  be  a  great  insurance  against  those  diseases  of  the 
brain  which  close  the  labors  and  usefulness  of  so  many 
strong  intellects. 

The  summer  vacation,  which  is  about  the  only  recre- 
ation that  an  American  professional  or  business  man 


AT   THE    ROOKERY.  23 

allows  himself,  is  apt  to  be  wasted  entirely  by  the  want  of 
mental  refreshment  which  can  not  be  found  in  the  ordi- 
nary resorts  of  summer  pleasure-seekers.  The  vacation 
does  little  good  to  him  who  carries  his  business  on  his 
brain  ;  and  it  too  frequently  happens  that  men  go  to 
places  where  they  have  no  resort  for  amusement  except 
to  the  newspapers  and  the  business  talk  of  other  weary 
men  like  themselves.  It  is  not  every  man  who  should  go 
a-fishing,  but  there  are  many  who  would  find  this  their 
true  rest  and  recreation  of  body  and  mind.  And  having, 
either  in  boyhood  or  in  later  life,  learned  by  experience 
how  pleasant  it  is  to  go  a-fishing,  you  will  find,  as  Peter 
found,  that  you  are  drawn  to  it  whenever  you  are  weary, 
impatient,  or  sad. 

In  every  opening  spring  anglers  feel  the  longing  for 
the  country  and  the  trout  streams.  It  is  something  more 
than  longing,  it  is  an  essential — the  necessity  of  going  a- 
fishing — a  necessity  which  the  angler  well  appreciates,  but 
which  may  seem  inexplicable  to  him  who  has  no  love  for 
the  gentle  art.  In  the  cold  days  and  nights  of  winter  the 
love  of  the  streams  and  lakes  is  intense  enough,  but  it  is 
not  active — it  is  not  a  propelling  motive.  It  is  delicious 
to  remember  the  last  year's  enjoyment,  to  recall  the  mu- 
sic of  waters  which  have  long  ago  run  to  the  seas  ;  of 
trees  shaken  by  winds  that  have  died  to  rest.  Ah  !  the 
delight  of  such  recollections  ! 

They  are  like  attendant  spirits,  dwelling  in  our  city 
houses,  making  themselves  known  only  in  the  evening, 
when  the  firelight  shines  into  unfathomed  distances.  Many 
an  evening  in  the  winter  they  talk  to  me  as  I  sit  by  the 
library  fire,  and  it  is  quaint  and  queer  to  hear  them  talk, 
and  very  pleasant  withal.  There  are  two  pictures  on 
the  wall  which  seem  to  be  the  resting-places  of  two  op- 


24  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

posing  tribes  of  spirits.  On  the  one  side  a  grand  old 
piece  of  flesh  representing  Paul,  the  first  hermit,  by  Ribe- 
ra,  and  on  the  other  side  a  Flora,  by  an  unknown  artist, 
very  beautiful  and  very  breezy,  with  flowers  abundant,  the 
very  light  of  spring  beaming  out  of  her  eyes.  In  Novem- 
ber and  December  the  Spagnoletto  has  the  advantage. 
The  dark  but  loving  old  eyes,  the  massive  yet  delicate 
features,  the  profound  expression  of  devotion,  all  seem  in 
keeping  with  the  winter,  and  with  one's  own  humor.  It 
indeed  speaks  of  the  country,  but  of  the  desert  of  the 
Thebaid,  where  among  rocks  and  yellow  sand  the  raven 
fed  the  saint,  and  Anthony  found  and  buried  him.  So,  as 
the  evenings  pass,  one  may  read  or  work,  looking  up  at 
the  hermit's  face,  and  catching  now  and  then  an  inspira- 
tion like  that  of  the  old  ages,  breathing  in  the  atmosphere 
of  the  early  times.  But  as  March  passes  into  April,  and 
April  yields  to  May,  Flora  grows  glorious  in  her  beauty, 
and  laughs  triumphantly  across  at  Paul,  who  has  kept  her 
quiet  for  so  long.  Now  she  wields  her  power.  Every 
look  out  of  her  eyes  is  a  command — "  Meet  me  in  the  up- 
country."  It  is  astonishing,  the  manner  in  which  these 
two  pictures  keep  up  this  annual  contest,  and  it  has  been 
so  often  repeated  that  they  now  seem  to  take  it  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  and  each  keeps  within  its  own  domain  of 
time.  Is  the  secret  in  the  pictures,  or  in  the  man  who  in- 
habits the  room  ? 

If  the  angler  be  not  impelled  by  the  command  of  a 
visible  queen  of  May,  he  always  feels  the  unconquerable 
necessity  of  going  a-fishing  when  the  spring  comes.  It 
can't  be  resisted.  He  might  as  well  try  to  shake  off  the 
impulse  of  waking  up  in  the  morning,  and  resolve  to 
sleep  on  forever.  Thus  it  happened  that  I  was  driven  off, 
drawn  off,  tempted  off,  call  it  what  you  will,  to  visit  an  old 


THE    ROOKERY.  25 

friend  whose  home  in  the  country  has  been  a  home  for 
a  few  lovers  of  him  and  of  trout  these  many  years.  It  is 
a  spot  like  which  there  are  not  many — of  exceeding  beau- 
ty and  attractiveness.  The  winds  sigh  as  they  pass  over 
it,  because  they  can  not  pause  and  sleep  as  I  do  there. 
The  hemlocks  on  the  mountain  bend  down  toward  it, 
longing  for  that  far  day  when  they  shall  fall  and  rest  on 
the  hill-side,  and  that  more  distant  day  when,  dust  of  the 
earth,  they  shall  be  brought  by  gentle  rains  down  to  the 
depths  of  the  valley,  and  find  the  calm  that  is  so  undis- 
turbed and  perfect. 

Many  years  ago,  my  friend  discovered  the  spot  and  in- 
habited it.  It  had  been  for  a  long  time  previous  almost 
a  wilderness,  though  across  the  mountain,  a  few  miles  off, 
was  a  fine  farming  country.  The  Rookery  took  its  name 
from  an  old  log  house  which  at  first  satisfied  the  wants 
of  an  angler  coming  here  only  to  pass  a  few  days  or 
weeks  in  quiet  sport.  But  a  frame  house  grew  against 
the  log  house,  and  then  a  large  and  roomy  stone  house, 
with  abundance  of  places  for  friends  ;  and  then,  as  he 
loved  the  spot  more  and  more  for  its  associations,  he  filled 
it  with  furniture,  and  brought  his  library  from  his  city 
house,  and  began  to  live  here  nine  months  of  the  year. 
The  glen  became  a  very  paradise.  The  bottom-land,  when 
cleared  and  drained,  was  a  rich  farm  ;  and  a  few  houses 
for  his  workmen  made  a  settlement  in  the  heart  of  the 
forest.  Then  civilization  approached  in  the  shape  of  a 
railroad,  with  a  station  two  miles  off,  and  the  inevitable- 
law  of  human  weakness  introduced  luxury  into  this  once 
remote  forest  home  in  the  shape  of  regular  newspapers — 
the  morning  papers  of  the  city — fortunately  cooled  off 
from  their  city  heat  and  impetuosity  of  thought  and  ex- 
pression by  a  long  day's  ride  on  the  rail  before  they  reach 


26  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

the  Rookery.  Still,  this  is  a  forest  home.  The  acres, 
which  count  by  the  thousand,  include  mountains  and 
lakes,  and  you  must  drive  a  long  way  from  the  house  be- 
fore you  strike  on  any  sign  of  other  human  residence. 

Just  in  front  of  the  house  the  mountains  open  in  a  ra- 
vine, and  down  this  comes  a  noble  stream,  wherein  the 
trout  lie  cool  and  quiet.  Over  the  hill,  in  the  winds  of 
September,  the  fat  deer  snuff  the  birch  breezes,  and  come 
sauntering  down  to  the  copse  behind  the  gardens,  where 
they  sometimes  startle  little  Ellie,  the  gardener's  daugh- 
ter, who  runs  in  with  brown  eyes  wide  open,  and  tells  of 
the  flashing  eyes  and  lofty  antlers  that  scared  her  as  she 
stood  at  the  little  swinging  gate. 

I  can  not  linger  on  these  descriptions.  You  have  heard 
of  such  spots — dreamed  of  them.  Some  day,  "  if  you  are 
good,  and  deserve  it,"  as  Ellie  saith,  I  will  bring  you 
here,  where  I  found  a  company  of  old  friends,  and  where, 
with  John  Steenburger,  the  traveler,  and  John  Johnston, 
the  clergyman,  and  others,  old  friends  of  Philip  Alexan- 
der, our  host,  I  have  let  many  a  blessed  month  of  May  die 
and  be  carried  away  by  the  breath  of  June  without  lament- 
ing it.  There  has  been  other  pleasant  company  there 
that  will  not  be  there  again,  and  that  recollection  gives  us 
all  a  love  for  the  old  place. 

The  night  had  been  cool  and  delightful.  We  had  slept 
the  sleep  of  the  innocent,  but  the  Doctor  roused  me  by 
stumbling  into  my  room  before  daybreak  and  lighting  a 
candle,  wherewith  he  found  my  fly-book,  and  then  sat 
down  to  examine  it.  When,  at  last,  I  persuaded  myself 
to  open  my  eyes,  it  was  to  see  him  at  work  by  the  candle- 
light, dressing  a  fly  for  the  benefit  of  the  fish  that  he  had 
seen  yesterday  in  a  deep  hole  a  mile  up  the  glen.  As 
he  worked  he  sang,  changing  the  tune  and  time  occasion- 


DOCTOR   JOHNSTON.  27 

ally,  for  now  it  was  a  bit  of  a  psalm  and  a  psalm  tune, 
and  now  it  was  the  fag  end  of  an  unholy  opera  air  that 
he  enunciated,  and,  as  he  finished  the  fly,  he  brought  out 
a  profound  bass  "  in  secula  seculonim  "  that  would  have 
done  credit  to  the  celebrated  throat  which  makes  music 
in  St.  Roche  on  feast  days. 

For  the  Doctor,  be  it  known  to  you,  has  a  taste  for  mu- 
sic, and  an  ear  for  all  beautiful  sounds,  even  as  Squire 
John — that  is,  John  Steenburger,  the  traveler — has  for  all 
beautiful  sights.  Hence  the  Doctor  will  pause  sometimes 
and  listen  to  the  melody  of  wind  and  water  among  the 
hills,  and  say  "  Beautiful ;"  and  the  Squire  will  think  he 
speaks  of  the  view,  which  is  pre-eminently  bad  at  the  mo- 
ment, and  the  result  is  generally  what  would  be  called 
a  discussion  elsewhere,  but  what  we  call  a  row  between 
the  two  Johns. 

"  A — men  !"  sang  the  Squire  from  his  room  opening 
into  mine,  as  he  heard  the  Doctor's  finale.  "  I  say,  Ef- 
fendi,  what  is  the  Doctor  at  in  your  quarters  ?" 

"Setting  snares  for  the  unwary.  Rising  up  early  to 
entrap  innocence.  The  man  of  blood  is  arming  himself 
and  sharpening  his  weapons." 

"  Come,  come.  None  of  your  nonsense,  you  two.  Let 
us  be  off  early." 

"Why,  Doctor,  the  trout  haven't  had  their  breakfasts 
yet.  You  wouldn't — " 

"  Wouldn't  I  ?"  And  I  left  my  bed  on  one  side  as  a 
ewer  of  water  came  into  it  on  the  other  from  the  unmer- 
ciful hands  of  the  churchman,  who  claims  to  be  the  com- 
mancler-in-chief  of  our  small  party,  and  exercises  a  most 
tyrannous  rule  over  us. 

A  cup  of  coffee  was  ready  in  the  breakfast-room,  where 
Philip  joined  us.  The  dim  morning  light  was  not  sum- 


28  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

cient  to  make  visible  the  ebony  face  of  Simon ;  but  his 
teeth  reflected  the  dawn  as  he  let  us  out  at  the  front  door 
of  the  old  kitchen,  and  we  strode  off  into  the  twilight  of 
the  park  and  the  forest. 

Half  an  hour's  walk  brought  us  to  the  bank  of  the 
stream,  two  miles  up  the  glen.  We  proposed  to  whip  it 
down  to  the  house,  for  it  crossed  the  road  fifty  rods  from 
the  end  of  the  mansion. 

The  Doctor  walked  ahead,  talking  vehemently. 

The  sun  was  rising  as  we  reached  the  water,  and  the 
first  ray  fell  on  the  ripple  with  the  white  fly  of  the  Doc- 
tor's morning  work. 

I  appreciate  wholly  your  exclamation,  my  good  friend, 
when  you  read  of  a  white  fly  on  running  water  at  sunrise 
of  a  clear  day.  It  does  not  seem  right  to  you.  In  point 
of  fact,  it  seems  absurd,  and  you  begin  to  doubt  at  once 
whether  the  Doctor  knew  any  thing  about  fishing.  Trust 
him  for  that.  He  knows  more  about  it  than  you  or  I  will 
ever  learn.  For  trout-fishing  is  an  art  which  can  never 
be  learned  from  books,  and  which  experience  alone  will 
teach. 

It  is  noteworthy,  and  has  doubtless  often  attracted  the 
attention  of  anglers,  that  different  books  give  totally  dif- 
ferent instructions  and  information  about  the  same  fish. 
This  is  easily  explained.  Most  of  the  writers  on  angling 
have  written  from  experience  obtained  in  certain  waters. 
One  who  has  taken  trout  for  a  score  of  years  in  the  St. 
Regis  waters  forms  his  opinion  of  these  fish  from  their 
habits  in  those  regions.  But  a  St.  Regis  trout  is  no  more 
like  aWelokennebacook  trout  in  his  habits  than  a  Boston 
gentleman  is  like  a  New-Yorker.  Who  would  think  of 
describing  the  habits  and  customs  of  mankind  from  a 
knowledge  of  the  Englishman?  Yet  we  have  abundance 


HABITS   OF    TROUT.  29 

of  book-lore  on  the  habits  of  fish,  founded  on  acquaint- 
ance with  the  fish  in  one  or  another  locality.  To  say 
truth,  until  one  has  studied  the  habits  of  trout  in  all  the 
waters  of  the  world,  it  is  unsafe  for  him  to  venture  any 
general  account  of  those  habits. 

Take  the  simplest  illustration.  If  you  are  on  the  lower 
St.  Regis,  and  seek  large  trout,  rise  before  the  sun,  and 
cast  for  the  half-hour  preceding  and  the  hour  following 
sunrise.  You  will  find  the  fish  plenty  and  voracious, 
striking  with  vigor,  and  evidently  on  the  feed.  But  go  to 
Profile  Lake  (that  gem  of  all  the  world  of  waters),  wherein 
I  have  taken  many  thousand  trout,  and  you  will  scarcely 
ever  have  a  rise  in  the  morning.  In  the  one  lake  the  fish 
are  in  the  habit  of  feeding  at  day-dawn.  In  the  other  no 
trout  breakfasts  till  nine  o'clock,  unless,  like  the  depart- 
ing guests  in  the  neighboring  hotel,  business  or  pleasure 
lead  him  to  be  up  for  once  at  an  early  hour. 

So,  too,  you  may  cast  on  Profile  Lake  at  noon  in  the 
sunshine,  and,  as  in  most  waters,  though  the  trout  are 
abundant,  they  will  not  be  tempted  to  rise.  But  in  Echo 
Lake,  only  a  half-mile-  distant,  where  trout  are  scarce,  I 
have  killed  many  fish  of  two  and  three  pounds'  weight, 
and  nearly  all  between  eleven  and  one  o'clock  in  bright 
sunshiny  weather.  In  fact,  when  they  rise  at  all  on  Echo 
Lake,  it  is  almost  invariably  at  that  hour,  and  very  seldom 
at  any  other.  Men  have  their  hours  of  eating,  settled  into 
what  we  call  habits.  The  Bostonian  dines  at  one  hour, 
the  New-Yorker  at  another.  One  should  not  attempt  to 
describe  the  eating  habits  of  man  in  general  from  either 
class,  or  from  both.  In  many  respects  the  habits  of  fish 
are  formed,  as  are  the  habits  of  men,  by  the  force  of  cir- 
cumstances, or  by  the  influence  of  the  imitative  propensity. 
They  do  some  things  only  because  they  have  seen  other 


30  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

fish  do  so.     Instinct  leads  them  to  some  habits,  education 
to  others. 

Now  to  return  to  the  white  fly.  The  discussion  is  quite 
vain,  into  which  so  many  fishermen  have  gone,  on  the 
question  whether  the  artificial  fly  is  to  be  used  on  the  im- 
itation theory.  Trout  take  some  flies  because  they  resem- 
ble the  real  fly  on  which  they  feed.  They  take  other  flies 
for  no  such  reason.  And  in  this  they  are  like  men.  If 
you  have  entered  a  restaurant  to  dine,  having  made  up 
your  mind  to  eat  roast  beef,  you  will  not  be  moved  by  any 
eloquence  of  the  waiter  who  recommends  the  mutton  or 
the  turkey,  or  any  number  of  other  dishes.  Roast  beef 
you  want,  and  you  will  have  it.  So,  when  trout  are  feed- 
ing on  a  particular  fly,  and  have  their  appetites  set  upon 
it,  you  will  see  them  rising  every  where  to  take  that  fly, 
and  you  can  not  coax  them  to  touch  one  of  all  that  you 
are  able  to  offer  them  unless  you  happen  to  have  an  imi- 
tation of  that  bonne  bouche.  Yet  it  may  occur  that  one 
or  another  trout  has  no  such  set  appetite,  and  once  in  a 
while  such  a  rover  will  take  your  offer  of  almost  any  thing. 

The  Doctor  had  his  reasons  therefore  for  dressing  a 
white  fly.  If  I  were  compelled  to  give  a  theory  on  the 
subject,  I  should  refer  to  my  experience.  I  have  fre- 
quently killed  trout  in  swift  water  with  a  white  fly  at 
midday,  and  I  think  the  trout  takes  it  for  a  fish  and  not 
a  fly ;  for  I  have  observed  that  he  generally  seizes  it 
with  open  mouth  on  a  sharp  rush,  and  does  not  strike  it 
first  with  his  tail,  as  he  does  usually  in  taking  a  fly. 

The  white  fly  raised  a  pound  fish,  and  the  doctor 
landed  him  after  a  brief  run.  Then  another  not  so  large, 
and  then  a  half  dozen  smaller  fish.  So  his  theory  was 
sustained. 

We  worked  dilisentlv  for  half  an  hour  down  the  bank. 


A    FINE   TROUT.  31 

till  we  approached  the  spot  which  our  friend  had  in  his 
mind.  We  took  an  excellent  run  of  trout  all  along.  I 
think  the  morning's  work  was  better  than  usual,  and  our 
spirits  rose  as  we  strolled  through  the  grand  old  forest. 
The  river  was  full  of  music,  the  rush  of  every  rapid  was 
loud  and  clear  and  ringing.  The  sharp  cry  of  the  wood- 
pecker sounded  shrill  across  the  valley,  while  an  occa- 
sional partridge  that  we  put  up  here  and  there  went  off 
with  a  buzzing,  thunderous  flight  that  was  altogether  use- 
less under  the  circumstances,  for  it  was  May,  and  we 
carried  only  rods. 

"  Ha !  I  have  him  now,"  said  the  Doctor,  suddenly,  as 
he  struck  a  fine  trout. 

He  was  a  pretty  specimen,  but  I  had  seen  a  larger  one 
rise  at  the  same  fly,  and,  when  he  missed  it,  turn  down 
toward  the  eddy  under  a  rock  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream.  Philip  saw  him  too. 

"  My  head  against  your  wig  he  kills  the  largest  fish 
of  the  day  within  ten  minutes,  Doctor." 

"  I  wear  my  own  hair,  Philip,  as  I  have  before  re- 
marked to  you." 

I  had  him ;  my  reel  flew  around  with  a  sharp  whirr  as 
he  went  down  stream. 

The  Doctor  looked  on  with  disappointment  in  his 
whole  countenance.  It  was  the  very  trout  for  whose  de- 
lectation he  had  tied  that  fly. 

The  bend  of  the  rod,  the  gentle  feeling  with  the  finger 
as  I  checked  the  run  of  the  line,  told  his  weight  almost 
as  accurately  as  a  spring  scale.  Don't  imagine  always 
that  anglers  have  no  authority  for  their  figures  when 
they  tell  of  large  fish  that  they  have  struck  and  lost.  I 
know  men  who  are  accustomed  to  tell  the  weight  of  their 
fish  before  they  have  seen  them  above  water,  and  who 


32  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

will  hit  it  correctly  within  an  ounce  or  two  nine  times 
out  of  ten ;  for  the  angler  knows  his  rod,  and  it  grows 
to  his  hand  like  a  part  of  it,  so  that  he  feels  the  fish  on 
it  as  if  he  were  in  his  very  grasp. 

He  went  down  stream  thirty  yards,  and  then  yielded 
to  the  pressure  and  swung  across  the  current.  Just  for 
a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  try  it  again  down  the 
current,  and,  if  so,  I  must  follow  him,  for  I  had  only  ten 
yards  of  line  left  on  the  reel.  But  the  hook  held  well, 
and  the  angry  fish  began  a  series  of  rushes  from  one 
side  of  the  stream  to  the  other,  back  and  across,  again 
and  again,  darting  like  an  arrow,  as  if  at  each  rush  he 
would  go  high  out  on  the  land,  but  turning  with  incon- 
ceivable swiftness  at  each  bank.  Then  suddenly,  and 
in  a  style  wholly  uncommon  with  the  brook  trout,  he 
started  down  stream,  over  a  low  fall  and  into  a  deep 
hole,  where  he  sulked  like  a  salmon. 

The  Doctor  had  watched  me  with  intense  anxiety — so 
intense  that  he  forgot  his  own  line  and  fly,  and  stood 
with  his  mouth  and  eyes  wide  open  as  the  reel  flew 
around  with  its  shrill  noise.  He  uttered  an  ejaculation 
of  satisfaction  when  the  sound  ceased,  and  now  accom- 
panied me  as  I  made  my  way  down  the  bank,  slowly 
winding  in  the  slack  of  the  line  without  disturbing  the 
gentleman  who  had  hold  of  the  other  end. 

"  Easy,  easy,  now;  don't  hurry  yourself,  boy." 

"  Be  quiet,  Doctor  ;  your  pulpit  voice  and  declamatory 
style  will  stir  up  his  friend  down  there.  Do  be  quiet." 

"  Hum.  You're  impertinent,  Philip  ;  and,  besides  that, 
you  know  as  well  as  I  that  fish  can't  hear.  That's  set- 
tled now  beyond  a  question." 

"  I  say,  Effendi,  just  give  the  Doctor  your  rod.  He'll 
not  be  content  till  he  has  it  in  his  own  hands." 


THE   DOCTOR  S    PLUNGE.  33 

"He  can't  have  it,  John." 

We  were  now  close  over  the  deep  hole.  The  stream 
was  here  some  forty  feet  across,  and  took  a  short  turn 
to  the  westward  ;  the  result  was  a  deep  undermining  of 
the  left  bank.  Close  to  the  edge  was  the  stump  of  a 
large  tree ;  the  roots  went  into  the  water  in  a  dozen 
strange  twists  and  curves.  But  they  prevented  the  fur- 
ther washing  away  of  the  bank,  and  the  result  was  a  deep 
hole,  in  which  the  trout  found  refuge. 

"  Wait,  just  one  second,  till  I  look  over !"  said  the  Doc- 
tor; and,  dropping  on  his  hands  and  knees,  he  crept  to 
the  edge  of  the  overhanging  bank,  and  leaned  as  far  over 
the  water  as  his  neck  and  arms  would  allow.  The  view 
of  the  somewhat  ponderous  body  of  the  learned  fisher- 
man, in  this  peculiar  posture,  was  not  a  little  picturesque  ; 
but  how  much  more  so  was  it  when  the  edge  of  the  bank 
suddenly  gave  way,  and  the  descending  head  of  the  Doc- 
tor vanished  and  his  feet  followed  with  a  celerity  that 
was  most  remarkable.  A  guttural  "  Phil — up — up — puh  " 
— a  tremendous  splash,  a  white  foam  flying  into  the  air — 
and  it  was  all  over. 

Perhaps  you  think  we  rushed  to  the  rescue.  .We  did 
no  such  thing.  We  sat  down  on  the  ground  and  shouted ; 
we  rolled  among  the  dead  leaves  and  rent  the  air  with 
our  shrieks.  When  we  could  speak  we  thought  of  the 
Doctor's  probable  fate,  and  then  looked  toward  the  water 
for  the  first  time. 

There  was  his  face — ghastly  and  alarmingly  severe. 
He  had  one  of  the  roots  in  both  hands.  It  was  pretty 
far  under  water,  and  required  a  severe  stretch  for  him  to 
keep  his  chin  above.  This  he  had  accomplished  ;  but 
he  could  not  raise  his  eyes  to  the  level  of  the  bank,  and 
could  only  gather  from  our  shouts  in  what  way  we  were 

C 


34  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

occupied.  When  he  was  fairly  out  and  on  the  bank  he 
was  a  subject  for  an  artist. 

But  I  landed  my  fish.  He  of  course  left  when  the 
Doctor  plunged,  and,  crossing  the  basin,  had  doubtless 
been  in  a  state  of  astonishment  at  all  the  events  of  the 
morning.  He  had  not  gotten  rid  of  the  hook;  and  when 
I  picked  up  my  rod  I  felt  him  there,  and  soon  brought 
him  to  the  landing-net,  three  pounds  and  three  quarters 
plump,  as  noble  a  fish  as  one  could  desire. 

The  Doctor  was  not  the  man  to  give  up  a  morning's 
sport  for  a  wetting,  and,  when  we  had  with  some  difficulty 
negotiated  a  treaty  of  peace,  after  what  he  called  our  gross 
treason  and  abominable  treatment  of  him,  we  sauntered 
on  down  the  stream,  and  filled  our  baskets  with  fine 
specimens. 

We  had  a  late  breakfast,  and  a  bountiful  one,  at  the 
Rookery.  Nothing  goes  more  to  the  heart  of  a  fisherman 
than  a  good  cup  of  coffee,  and  this,  if  he  is  knowing,  he 
will  manage  to  have  almost  every  where.  In  Philip's 
house  it  is  so  regularly  good  that  it  would  doubtless  make 
itself  of  a  morning  in  perfection  if  there  were  no  cook. 
Making  good  coffee  is  fast  getting  to  be  one  of  the  lost 
arts.  Certainly  one  meets  it  now  very  seldom  in  Amer- 
ica, and  still  more  seldom  in  Europe.  Traveling  in  our 
own  country,  at  hotels,  railway  stations,  and  even  in  pri- 
vate houses,  the  stuff  called  coffee  is  a  vile,  wishywashy 
drink,  worse  than  warm  water.  There  is  no  excuse  for 
this  when  good  coffee  is  so  easily  made.  The  rule  is  as 
simple  as  possible.  First  buy  good  coffee.  If  your  sense 
of  smell  is  not  educated  to  accomplish  the  purchase  with 
judgment,  get  some  one  who  can  smell  to  buy  it  for  you. 
Roast  it  brown.  Then  take  a  half-pint  of  ground  coffee, 
break  an  egg  in  it,  pour  on  three  half-pints  of  cold  water. 


COFFEE.  35 

and  set  it  on  the  fire.  No  matter  whether  it  is  in  an  open 
tin  pan  or  a  close  coffee-pot.  Don't  let  it  boil  three  sec- 
onds. The  instant  it  foams  up  your  coffee  is  ready.  Pour 
it  through  a  cloth  strainer,  and  to  a  fourth  of  a  cupful  of 
the  coffee  add  three  fourths  of  hot  milk.  Via  tout.  You 
have  a  cup  of  aromatic  bliss.  Old  fishermen  know  all 
about  this,  and  in  forest  life  have  better  coffee  in  camp 
than  can  be  had  at  the  Cafe  Foi  in  Paris. 

For  the  Parisian  cafe  is  not  what  it  used  to  be.  A  cup 
of  coffee  has  not  been  attainable  for  years  past  in  Paris, 
except  in  the  lowest-class  restaurants.  If  you  seek  it,  go 
to  the  environs  of  a  market — the  little  Marchd  St.  Hono- 
re'e,  for  example  —  and  in  one  of  the  miserable  shops 
where  the  market  people  get  their  early  breakfasts,  you 
may  find,  what  you  used  to  find  in  every  restaurant,  a 
good  bowl  of  cafe-au-lait. 

A  cup  of  coffee  is  full  of  refreshing  memories.  The 
sense  which  more  than  all  others  recalls  old  scenes  is  the 
sense  of  smell.  Odors,  good  or  bad,  are  quick  reminders. 
Neither  hearing  nor  sight  nor  touch  nor  taste  has  half 
the  power  to  recall  the  vanished  past. 

"  Effendi,"  said  Philip,  before  he  lifted  the  coffee  to  his 
lips  at  breakfast  that  morning,  "  what  has  become  of  our 
old  friend  Abd-el-Kader,  who  was  Nadir  in  Upper  Egypt 
when  I  met  you  at  Thebes  in  fifty-six  ?" 

"  What,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  has  started  such  an  in- 
quiry?" said  Dr.  Johnston,  looking  curiously  at  Philip. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Is  there  any  thing  odd  about 
my  question  ?" 

"  Nothing  odd ;  only  remarkably  remote  from  any  thing 
hereabouts." 

"  Not  so,"  I  said.  "  It  was  the  coffee.  The  only  time 
that  Philip  and  I  met  in  Egypt  was  at  Edfou,  one  after- 


36  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

noon  when  Abd-el-Kader  was  holding  his  appellate  court 
under  a  tree  on  the  bank  of  the  Nile,  and  we  drank  cof- 
fee and  smoked  latakia  with  him  for  an  hour  before  he 
came  down  to  my  boat.  His  coffee  was  the  best  of  Mocha, 
and  this  has  Mocha  in  it,  eh,  Philip  ?" 

"  Right.  It  is  half  Mocha  and  half  old  Java.  I  learned 
the  mixture  once  at  Aden,  and  have  always  kept  it  up." 

"  How  happened  it  that  you  and  the  Effendi  met  in  the 
East,  Philip?  I  never  heard  that  you  were  a  traveler." 

"  It's  a  long  story." 

"  All  the  better  ;  let  us  have  it." 

"  Not  just  now,"  said  Philip,  with  a  somewhat  sad 
smile,  turning  to  me  a  wistful  sort  of  look,  as  if  he  were 
half  inclined  to  tell  the  story.  Thereby  I  knew,  what  I 
had  long  suspected,  that  my  friend  had  some  secret  in  his 
breast  which  might  with  relief  to  him  be  imparted  to  oth- 
ers ;  for  I  had  only  known  him  twenty  years  or  so,  and 
mostly  as  a  fisherman,  and  he  was  one  of  the  sort  who 
wins  one's  heart.  He  was  a  man  of  rare  accomplish- 
ments, much  older  than  I,  yet  with  a  vigorous  frame.  So 
I  said  quietly,  "  Let  us  go  a-fishing  this  afternoon,  and 
perhaps  this  evening  Philip  will  tell  us  the  story." 

So  we  went  out  that  evening  under  the  great  trees,  and 
walked  and  talked  and  fished,  and  fished  and  talked  and 
walked ;  and  when  the  dark  came  down  on  us,  and  John 
was  speaking  of  something  that  happened  to  him  in  Jeru- 
salem, our  friend  turned  to  me,  and  spoke  in  a  soft,  gut- 
tural Arabic — 

"  Effendi,  shall  I  tell  my  story  ?" 

"  Is  it  peace  ?" 

"  It  is  peace." 

"Good.     Say  on,  Iskander  Effendi." 


III. 

ISKANDER  EFFENDI. 

"  IT  is  somewhat  strange  that  you  people  have  known 
me  so  long  and  have  known  so  little  about  me.  But  that 
is  the  way  of  the  world.  I  have  had  nothing  to  conceal, 
and  it  only  happens  that  you  never  before  put  the  ques- 
tion to  me  plainly,  'Have  you  a  story  to  tell?'  Every 
one  of  you,  doubtless,  could  tell  a  personal  history  fully  as 
strange  as  mine,  for  there  is  a  vast  deal  of  romance  in  the 
most  ordinary  lives,  and  there  is  no  man  or  woman  in  the 
most  quiet  country  place  in  America  whose  life  has  not 
been  marked  by  one  or  another  event  which  has  in  it  all 
the  elements  of  what  we  call  the  romantic.  These  events 
may  have  occurred  in  the  old  farm-house,  in  the  village 
home,  in  the  brown-stone  city  house,  or — as  mine — in  dis- 
tant countries.  My  story,  stripped  of  the  local  interests 
which  make  it  seem  strange  to  American  life,  is  a  very 
common  story;  but  I  confess  that  sometimes  when  I  am 
leading  this  calm  and  delicious  existence  of  ours  in  the 
Rookery,  I  have  hard  work  to  realize  my  personal  identity 
with  the  man  whom  you,  I  think,  will  be  surprised  to  hear 
was  once  Iskander  Effendi,  merchant  in  Jerusalem.  You 
know  that  I  am  a  Hebrew  by  birth.  My  father's  family 
had  lived  in  England,  and  he  came  thence  to  New  York, 
bringing  with  him  all  his  property.  I  was  brought  up  as 
an  only  child.  Educated  with  care  and  expense,  sent 


38  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

abroad  to  travel,  and  indoctrinated  thoroughly  into  the  re- 
ligious faith  of  my  ancestors. 

"  I  was  not  given  to  associating  with  others  of  my  age 
and  station,  and  I  passed  with  such  as  a  somewhat  mo- 
rose boy.  Yet  with  books  and  paintings  I  made  life  pass 
on  quietly  enough,  and  so  I  might  have  lived  perhaps  till 
I  grew  old  had  I  not  seen  and  loved  a  woman. 

"  You  will  not  care  to  know  where  or  how  I  first  saw 

Edith  .  Some  of  you  remember  her.  It  was  the 

one  grand  secret  of  my  life.  I  was  a  young  man  of  ar- 
dent affections,  hopeful,  cheerful,  and  I  believe  I  could 
have  made  her  a  happy  wife.  She  was  very  beautiful,  and 
they  said  very  gentle  and  good,  and  I  saw  her  and  I  loved 
her. 

"  But  I  never  knew  her  for  years.  You  start.  Was  it 
strange  that  I,  a  Jew,  of  the  race  of  the  despised,  should 
have  shrunk  from  exposing  myself  to  her  contempt  ?  No. 
I  never  approached  her — never  spoke  a  word  to  her. 
Why  should  I  lose  the  glory  of  my  dream  by  subjecting 
myself  to  her  pity  or  her  scorn.  W7hy  should  I  risk  losing 
the  blessedness  of  loving  her  by  hearing  that  she  had 
called  me  Alexander  the  Jew? 

"  She  was  the  daughter  of  wealthy  parents.  Her  posi- 
tion was  undoubted.  Her  circle  was  not  mine,  though 
my  father's  wealth  was  tenfold  that  of  hers.  Though  we 
were  admitted  into  all  the  houses  of  the  wealthy  and  aris- 
tocratic in  America,  still  we  were  Jews;  and  I  would  not 
have  approached  that  fair  girl  and  subjected  myself  to 
the  glance  of  her  pitying  eye  for  all  the  wealth  of  Solomon. 
She  was  very  young,  not  eighteen,  but  a  perfect  woman  ; 
and  I  worshiped  her  at  a  distance — how  sincerely !  with 
what  depth  of  devotion  !  Once,  and  but  once,  I  was  near 
her;  for,  passing  down  a  New  York  street  one  dark 


ISKANDER    EFFENDI.  39 

night,  in  front  of  her  father's  door,  I  saw  her  carriage 
draw  up  at  the  curb,  and  she  descended  from  it  with  her 
mother.  Just  as  they  stepped  out  two  ruffians  set  upon 
them,  and  the  elder  lady  shrieked  and  fell,  while  Edith 
sprang  proudly  back  to  the  side  of  the  carriage,  and  raised 
her  slender  arm  and  fan  as  if  she  carried  a  sword.  It 
was  but  the  work  of  a  second  to  send  the  villains  one  into 
the  gutter  and  one  half  dead  against  an  iron  fence.  Then 
I  left  them,  unthanked — for  I  did  not  wish  to  be  recog- 
nized and  remembered.  Can  you  imagine  this  strange 
feeling  ?  It  was  my  life.  It  led  my  every-day  existence. 
For  this  thought  and  this  only  I  lived — that  I  should  love 
that  beautiful  girl,  and  love  her  unknown  forever. 

"  My  father  died,  leaving  me  wealthy  and  alone  in  the 
world.  The  life  I  had  led  had  wholly  separated  me  from 
men.  I  was  utterly  alone.  My  father's  loss  was  not  felt, 
for  I  had  never  loved  him.  Yet  there  was  a  strange  in- 
cident in  his  death  which  impressed  me.  He  died  sud- 
denly, and  his  last  words  were  very  few.  '  Philip — you 
are  alone — lonesome — my  son,  you  have  kindred  that  you 
know  not  of — Jerusalem  —  seek — father's  —  son — broth 
er —  These  broken  words  were  his  last  utterance. 

"  I  had  passed  four  years  of  my  life  in  the  East  with  a 
tutor.  I  know  not  what  longing  after  human  affection 
sent  me  on  the  search  that  was  pointed  out  in  my  father's 
last  words.  I  gathered  that  I  had  kindred  somewhere, 
and  perhaps  he  meant  to  say  he  or  his  father  had  a 
brother  of  whom  I  would  hear  something  in  Jerusalem. 

"  I  had  nothing  to  live  for  in  America  but  Edith — and 
just  then  Edith  was  gone.  Her  mother  died,  and  her  fa- 
ther took  her  away  to  Europe,  and  for  long  travel. 

"  I  went  to  seek  some  one  I  could  love,  and  that  would 
love  me.  It  was  a  boyish  fancy,  perhaps,  but  I  sought  it 


40  I   GO   A -FISHING. 

the  world  over.  In  Jerusalem  I  learned  nothing.  Then 
I  came  back  to  England,  and  sought  the  old  branches  of 
the  family,  but  they  had  gone  long  ago  to  Madrid.  At 
Madrid  I  found  no  traces  of  them  ;  but  I  went  thence  to 
Tunis,  and,  after  living  a  year  in  the  latter  city  of  living 
Arabs  and  dead  men's  bones,  I  went  by  way  of  the  coast 
with  a  Mograbbin  caravan  to  Cairo  and  Suez,  and  down 
the  Red  Sea  to  Aden. 

"  But  why  relate  further  my  wanderings.  For  three  years 
I  sought  kindred — any  thing  possessing  my  blood  — but 
without  success ;  and  I  returned  at  last  to  Jerusalem, 
where  I  resolved  to  live  and  die.  More  than  two  years  I 
had  been  in  the  Holy  City  without  setting  foot  within  the 
Christian's  great  temple,  when  one  morning  the  Padre 
Antonio,  desiring  to  purchase  of  me  a  rare  piece  of  bro- 
cade for  an  ornamental  use  in  the  Latin  chapel,  took  me 
with  him  to  see  the  spot.  I  was  dealing  in  silks  and  jew- 
els then  by  way  of  amusement,  for  I  was  a  lonesome  man 
in  my  habits  at  Jerusalem,  as  I  had  been  in  America. 
The  padre  left  me  alone  in  the  rotunda  of  the  church. 

"  I  was  standing  on  the  Latin  side  of  the  Holy  Sepul- 
chre, just  under  the  dome,  close  by  the  entrance  to  the 
chapel  of  the  angel.  It  was  almost  noon.  In  ten  min- 
utes, at  the  most,  we  would  hear  the  thundering  clatter  on 
the  board  at  the  door  which  implies  that  the  Turk  who 
sits  in  state  at  the  grand  entrance  is  about  to  go  to  his 
noonday  meal,  and  the  great  church  is  to  be  closed  until 
the  hour  of  vespers. 

"Here  and  there  around  the  sacred  centre  were  devo- 
tees kneeling  in  prayer.  On  the  Moor's  side  an  old 
black  man — looking,  in  the  face,  the  very  image  of  my 
grandfather's  servant,  Neptune,  but  in  dress  very  different 
— was  kneeling  at  the  edge  of  the  inclosing  wall  of  the 


ISKANDER    EFFENDI.  41 

sepulchre,  with  his  head  thrown  back,  and  his  face  up- 
turned to  the  blue  and  serene  sky  that  shone  over  the 
open  dome.  As  I  looked  at  him,  I  for  the  moment  for- 
got the  place  in  which  I  was,  and  remembered  the  scenes 
of  a  long-gone  and,  perhaps  I  should  add,  a  long-forgot- 
ten boyhood. 

"  I  could  not,  without  some  awe  and  reverence,  stand 
on  the  spot  that  had  received  so  many  bended  knees  and 
penitential  tears  for  fifteen  centuries ;  and,  while  that  feel- 
ing of  awe  and  reverence  was  taking  possession  of  me,  I 
caught  sight  of  the  face  of  the  kneeling  Moor,  and  the 
memory  of  my  old  home  in  America  came  over  me  with 
a  gush  of  tenderness,  and  I  felt  the  tears  on  my  cheek, 
and  wiped  them  away  with  the  silken  sleeve  of  my  caftan. 

"Just  at  that  moment  I  was  aware  of  another  person 
kneeling  close  by  my  side.  This  was  a  female,  but  her 
face  was  not  visible.  She  was  dressed  in  the  Arab  cos- 
tume, and  that  of  the  poorer  class.  A  long  blue  cotton 
gown,  without  belt,  fell  from  her  shoulders,  and  covered 
her  kneeling  form  ;  a  head-dress  of  the  same  blue  stuff 
— which  you,  perhaps,  might  call  a  veil — was  over  her 
head,  and  drawn  tight  around  her  face.  I  supposed  her 
to  be  a  Christian  woman  of  the  city,  or  possibly  from  Jaf- 
fa or  Kafr-el-Eniab,  and  I  would  have  taken  no  further 
notice  of  her  but  for  the  convulsive  sobs  which  shook  her 
frame,  and  which  now  became  painfully  audible. 

"The  monks  and  others  around  paid  no  attention  to 
this.  I  afterward  learned  to  know  that  such  sobs  and  ev- 
idences of  agony  are  too  common  just  there  to  attract 
the  attention  of  any  .frequenter  of  the  place.  Daily  many 
hundreds,  women  mostly,  kneel  weeping  there,  as  daily 
for  a  thousand  years  pilgrims  have  knelt  and  wept.  But 
I  was  a  stranger,  and  I  did  not  understand  that  the 


42  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

Christian  women  were  moved  there  very  much  as  our  Is- 
raelitish  old  men  are  moved  at  the  great  temple  stones 
where  every  Friday  they  meet  to  pray  and  lament. 

So  I  looked  at  her  more  earnestly,  and,  as  she  sobbed 
more  and  more,  she  slightly  displaced  the  cotton  garment 
that  covered  her  head  and  neck,  and,  standing  as  I  did 
just  above  her,  I  saw  that  she  was  no  Arab  woman. 
Her  neck  was  white ;  her  hair  was  bound  in  a  knot  with 
a  chain  of  gold  that  flashed  among  the  tresses  which 
hung  from  the  bright  loop. 

"'This,'  I  said,  'is  no  Arab  woman.  Is  she,  perhaps, 
Georgian  or  Circassian  ?  But,  if  so,  what  does  she  here 
in  the  church  of  Christ's  resurrection  ?  For  the  Georgi- 
ans and  Circassians  are  mostly  in  Turkish  harems.  Per- 
haps, then,  she  is  Greek.  But  why  the  disguise  ?  This 
cotton  robe  is  not  worn  for  humility,  since  it  is  but  the 
covering,  and  not  the  substitute  for  splendor.' 

"And  as  I  stood  thus  thinking,  the  thunder  of  the  rap- 
ping on  the  board  at  the  door  resounded  through  the 
building,  and  the  hundreds  of  monks,  attendants,  visitors, 
penitents,  and  beggars  rushed  in  a  mass  to  the  stone  of 
unction  and  the  great  doorway. 

"  The  praying  woman  by  my  side  rose  slowly  to  her 
feet  and  threw  back  the  veil  which  she  had  kept  pressed 
against  her  face.  She  did  not  entirely  expose  her  coun- 
tenance, and  I  could  only  catch  the  outline  of  a  rosy 
cheek  and  the  edge  of  a  rounded  chin.  The  act  was 
hasty,  as  if  she  was  oppressed  for  breath  ;  for,  as  she  did 
it,  a  labored  sigh  as  of  pent-up  grief  escaped  her  lips, 
and  she  murmured  audibly, '  To-morrow — to-morrow — al- 
ways to-morrow.' 

"  As  she  spoke,  she  seemed  suddenly  aware  of  my  pres- 
ence, and  the  veil  fell  over  her  face. 


ISKANDER    EFFENDI.  43 

"  I  had  heard  her  speak  four  words  in  good  English ; 
for  there  was  no  mistaking  that  English  word  to-morrow 
for  any  guttural  Arabic  word. 

"  It  was  none  of  my  business — this  woman's  grief,  or 
her  nationality.  Had  I  met  her  in  the  streets  of  New 
York  or  London,  or  even  in  Paris  or  Berlin,  and  she  had 
said,  'To-morrow — to-morrow — always  to-morrow,'  I  would 
probably  have  passed  on  and  forgot  her. 

"  But  to  see  the  outline  of  such  a  face  under  an  Arab 
yasmak,  and  to  hear  such  a  voice  in  English  accents 
utter  those  words  in  Jerusalem  by  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
was  another  sort  of  matter,  and  I  might  well  be  aston- 
ished. She  was  tall  and  slender — thus  much  the  dress 
exposed — and  she  moved  with  grace  ;  and  while  I  watched 
her  swift  steps,  she  was  gone  in  the  crowd,  and  I  was 
alone. 

"  I  hastened  out  into  the  open  space  before  the  church, 
but  in  such  a  mass  of  men  and  women,  each  woman  al- 
most a  fac-simile  of  all  the  others,  how  could  I  hope  to 
find  her.  Withal  there  was  one  of  the  daily  battles  be- 
tween a  Greek  and  a  Latin  priest  going  on  in  the  court, 
and  victory  long  hesitated  which  of  the  two  to  crown,  so 
that,  by  the  time  I  made  my  way  to  the  little  arch  that 
leads  out  by  the  ruins  of  the  Church  of  St.  John  and  the 
Hospital  of  the  Knights,  all  possibility  of  tracing  the  un- 
known was  lost,  and  I  was  left  to  my  imaginations. 

"  I  sat  in  the  afternoon  on  the  front  of  my  shop  in  the 
bazaar,  smoking  and  thinking — thinking,  doubtless,  of  the 
face  I  had  seen  in  the  morning  and  the  voice  I  had  heard, 
for  why  should  I  not?  I  was  alone  in  the  world — alone 
in  Jerusalem — nor  living  man  or  woman  could  claim  right 
to  challenge  my  thinking  of  any  beautiful  woman  I  chose 
to  occupy  myself  about. 


44  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

"The  next  shop  to  my  own  was  that  of  a  money- 
changer. You  know  that  the  shops  of  Jerusalem  are  not 
like  our  English  and  American  shops.  The  bazaar  is  one 
long,  narrow  street,  roofed  over  and  glazed,  so  that  the 
rain  never  falls  on  a  shop  front.  The  shops  are  each 
about  as  large  as  an  ordinary  show-window  in  a  Broad- 
way store — say  six  or  seven  feet  wide  and  as  many  deep 
— and  the  door  is  but  a  shutter,  hinged  at  the  bottom, 
which  falls  down,  and,  standing  out  in  the  street,  makes 
a  little  platform  in  front  of  the  shop  on  which  the  mer- 
chant sits  ;  so  that  the  bazaar  is  lined  with  a  row  of  mer- 
chants on  each  side,  sitting  only  a  few  feet  apart,  and 
each  one  can  reach  all  the  contents  of  his  shelves  almost 
without  rising  from  his  seat,  and  can  light  the  pipe  of  his 
opposite  neighbor  without  moving. 

"  A  camel  heavily  laden  was  coming  down  the  bazaar, 
and  had  reached  the  point  nearly  in  front  of  me,  when  a 
horseman,  followed  by  ten  or  a  dozen  others,  came  up 
from  the  street  of  David.  It  was  manifest  that  one  or  the 
other  must  turn  back,  for  there  was  not  room  for  the  horse- 
men to  pass.  The  leader  of  the  party  was  a  young  man, 
dressed  in  the  gorgeous  style  of  the  Lebanon  Druses.  No 
one  could  doubt  that  he  was  a  prince  of  that  proud  and 
strange  race,  and  the  haughty  style  in  which  he  shouted 
to  the  Arab  camel  driver  only  made  the  surmise  more 
sure. 

"  But  the  Arab  was  from  the  Jordan  Ghor,  and  Arabs 
of  that  neighborhood  seldom  give  way  to  mortal  man.  It 
therefore  seemed  that  the  horseman  would  be  ignomini- 
ously  overturned,  to  his  own  confusion  and  the  imminent 
danger  of  my  shop  and  wares,  for  the  Ishmaelite  came  on 
without  a  pause,  his  huge  camel  swinging  now  to  the  right 
and  now  to  the  left,  his  heavy  load  of  the  drift-wood  of 


ISKANDER    EFFENDI.  45 

the  Dead  Sea  threatening  to  carry  away  the  very  sides  of 
the  bazaar. 

"  The  horseman  reined  up,  or  rather  spoke  to  his  horse, 
who,  like  a  true  desert  mare,  stopped  as  if  she  were  sud- 
denly turned  to  a  statue.  Again  he  shouted  to  the  Arab, 
who  hung  lounging  over  the  neck  of  his  camel  with  an 
appearance  of  nonchalance  or  stupidity  that  might  well 
have  imposed  on  a  stranger  to  Arab  customs,  but  with  his 
keen  black  eye  flashing  from  under  the  shawl  that  hung 
over  his  head.  The  horseman  was  no  stranger.  The 
next  instant  he  uttered  the  sharp  hiss  that  camels  under- 
stand, and  with  the  utterance  mingled  the  report  of  his 
pistol.  The  camel  paused  with  uplifted  foot.  The  Arab 
fell  under  the  foot  as  it  came  down,  the  huge,  spongy  mass 
rolling  him  over,  but  not  crushing  him. 

"  '  He  is  dead,'  I  exclaimed  involuntarily  in  English. 

" '  Only  frightened/  said  the  Druse,  in  as  good  English 
as  mine  :  and,  turning  to  his  attendants,  he  uttered  some 
words  of  command  which  sufficed  to  clear  the  way  before 
him  in  a  few  seconds,  and  they  were  gone,  leaving  the 
Arab  lying  in  the  gutter  which  runs  along  the  middle  of 
the  streets  in  Jerusalem,  instead  of  at  the  sides  as  in  other 
cities. 

"  English  again  !  and  this  time  from  a  Druse ;  and  good 
sounding  English,  with  a  hearty  smack  of  familiarity  about 
it  which  left  no  doubt  that  the  speaker  had  used  that 
tongue  from  his  childhood.  Only  two  words,  but  enough 
for  my  brain  to  work  upon,  and  so  I  pondered  till  the  sun 
went  down,  and  then  I  walked  on  the  wall  above  the  Zion 
Gate,  and  thought  on  the  matter.  For  all  this  made  up  a 
startling  subject  of  thought  for  a  Jew  in  Jerusalem. 

"  Meantime  the  Arab  had  picked  himself  out  of  the  gut- 
ter. For  Mohammedan  or  Jew  durst  not  touch  a  man 


46  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

supposed  to  be  shot  by  a  Druse,  and  he  might  have  lain 
there  and  bled  to  death,  for  aught  they  dared  do  till  some 
Turkish  officer  had  passed  an  opinion  on  him.  I  was  just 
getting  off  my  shop  front  to  go  to  his  assistance,  but  he 
had  found  leisure  to  recover  his  scattered  brains,  and  rose 
to  his  feet.  Finding  no  bullet-hole  in  his  body,  to  his 
evident  astonishment,  he  went  to  seek  his  wandering  cam- 
el down  the  nearest  cross  street,  and  then  came  back  by 
our  way. 

"  Achmed  Haraga,  the  money-changer  next  me,  ex- 
changed a  word  with  him  as  he  came  along,  and  a  sign 
that  spoke  more  than  words.  I  had  learned  that  sign  in 
Bagdad,  and  I  knew  what  it  meant.  If  I  had  time  I 
would  tell  you  how  I  learned  it. 

"  I  walked  on  the  wall  over  Mount  Zion,  and  thought 
of  the  woman  I  had  seen  by  the  Sepulchre.  There  was 
something  very  home-like  about  that  English  voice.  It 
reminded  me  of  my  mother.  Did  I  tell  you  that  my 
mother  was  a  Christian  woman  ?  She  was  the  daughter 
of — no  matter  who — but  she  was  a  gentle,  beautiful  girl ; 
and  because  she  married  my  father  they  turned  her  out 
of  house  and  home,  and  cursed  her  at  the  fireside  where 
her  mother  had  prayed.  Her  mother,  thank  God,  was 
dead.  I  think  that,  but  for  the  memory  of  the  Christian 
treatment  her  family  gave  her,  I  might  by  her  gentle  in- 
fluences have  been  a  Christian.  But  I  never  forgot  that 
curse.  My  mother  died  when  I  was  young.  I  remem- 
bered her  face,  its  exceeding  tenderness  and  beauty,  and 
somehow  the  voice  of  the  weeping  woman  brought  back 
to  me  that  beloved  countenance.  '  To-morrow,'  I  said. 
'  Well,  I  will  go  to-morrow  to  the  Sepulchre  again,  and  per- 
haps I  shall  see  her  there;'  and,  content  with  that,  I  went 
my  way  homeward  by  the  street  of  the  Armenians. 


ISKANDER    EFFENDI.  47 

"  There  is  a  dark  archway  through  which  the  street 
passes  under  the  convent.  I  had  no  lantern  in  my  hand, 
and  this  was  a  violation  of  the  Turkish  rule.  It  was  not 
surprising,  therefore,  that  as  I  passed  the  door  of  the 
convent  under  the  arch  two  of  the  soldiers  of  the  pasha 
should  seize  me,  and  demand  why  I  was  out  alone  with- 
out a  lantern.  I  replied  that  I  was  an  American.  They 
thought  my  Arabic  too  good  for  that,  or  pretended  so  to 
think,  and — and — the  result  was  that  I  had  to  be  rough. 
I  had  some  skill  in  that  line  ;  my  early  education  was 
not  neglected.  They  shouted  for  help,  and  several  sol- 
diers were  on  me  in  a  twinkling.  Imagine  my  surprise, 
however,  when  I  found  myself  standing  with  my  back  to 
the  convent  wall,  and  not  alone  in  my  position  of  de- 
fense. Another  man,  whose  features  were  wholly  invisi- 
ble in  the  dark,  was  as  hearty  as  I  in  the  business  of 
our  defense ;  and,  as  the  melee  was  altogether  too  thick 
for  the  use  of  fire-arms,  we  soon  found  ourselves  fully 
equal  to  the  task  of  keeping  at  bay  the  entire  lot  of  Mos- 
lem soldiers. 

" '  How  long  is  this  to  last,  however  ?'  I  asked  in  Ara- 
bic, after  we  had  kept  them  off  about  five  minutes  by 
putting  six  or  eight  of  them  wholly  out  of  the  combat. 

"  '  No  longer  than  we  like  it,'  said  my  ally,  very  coolly. 
'  For  my  part,  I  rather  enjoy  the  fun  of  the  thing ;  but,  if 
you  say  so,  we'll  have  help,'  and,  without  waiting  my  re- 
ply, he  blew  a  shrill  whistle  that  rang  down  the  street 
toward  the  Tower  of  David,  and  a  troop  of  horse  came  up 
the  pavement  at  a  gallop. 

"  '  Sweep  out  the  archway,'  was  the  ringing  order  given 
by  my  companion,  and  the  next  instant  the  soldiers  of 
the  pasha  were  scattered  like  chaff,  and  we  were  at  lib- 
erty. The  good  Armenians  had  long  ago  bolted  and 


48  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

barred  their  convent  doors  against  Jew,  Turk,  and  infidel, 
as  is  their  custom  when  either  is  likely  to  demand  their 
services.  So  we  were  left  to  ourselves,  and  when  the 
troop  returned  my  valiant  defender  mounted  me  by  his 
side,  and  we  went  at  a  rattling  pace  down  the  hill  from 
the  Jaffa  gate  and  up  the  sharp  winding  passage  that 
leads  south  to  the  gate  of  the  Mograbbins.  And  here 
we  passed  near  my  own  house,  and  I  asked  my  brave 
friend  to  pause,  and  let  me  thank  him  for  his  aid.  But 
he  declined  briefly,  saying  the  city  would  probably  be 
too  hot  for  him  to-night. 

"  '  But  shall  I  not  see  you  again  at  all,  to  thank  you?' 

"  '  Thanks  are  not  needed.  I  did  but  my  duty.  But 
stay — you  live  in  this  quarter  ?  Then  you  are  a  Jew.  We 
are  both  bound  to  enmity  against  this  accursed  govern- 
ment. I  must  hasten  now,  but  I  will  see  you  again. 
Which  is  your  house  ?  To-morrow  night  at  this  hour  I 
will  be  there — Sebulkeer ; ' — and  he  was  gone.  What  nec- 
romancy was  it  that  a  minute  later  made  the  gate  of 
the  Mograbbins  clang  heavily  as  it  closed  —  that  gate 
least  often  opened  in  the  daytime  of  any  gate  of  Jeru- 
salem, and  always  shut  at  night  as  firmly  as  if  sealed 
with  the  seal  of  Solomon  ? 

"  Before  noon  of  the  next  day  I  was  on  watch  in  the 
Church  of  the  Sepulchre ;  but  I  watched  in  vain  for  the 
blue  gown.  There  were  hundreds  of  that  color;  but  the 
form  and  step  I  looked  for  were  absent. 

As  I  stood  near  the  door  of  the  Sepulchre,  looking 
eagerly  toward  the  stone  of  unction,  I  became  suddenly 
aware  of  a  conversation  carried  on  in  English  within 
the  Chapel  of  the  Angel.  It  was  in  low  tones ;  but  I 
was  standing  directly  in  front  of  the  small  hole  in  the 
wall  through  which  the  Greek  priests  are  accustomed  to 


ISKANDER    EFFENDI.  49 

pass  out  the  holy  fire  on  Easter-day,  and  the  persons 
within  doubtless  took  no  note  of  the  existence  of  such 
an  outlet.  They  supposed  themselves  alone,  and,  having 
full  view  of  the  doorway,  imagined  that  no  one  was  with- 
in hearing.  For  you  will  bear  in  mind  that  the  Chapel 
of  the  Angel  is  a  little  chapel  in  front  of  the  Sepulchre, 
on  the  floor  of  the  church,  under  the  great  dome. 

" '  My  daughter,'  said  in  Arabic  a  voice  of  singular 
melody ;  '  my  daughter,  your  grief  seems  very  heavy — 

'"I  do  not  understand  Arabic/  interrupted  a  female 
voice  in  Italian. 

"'I  said,'  replied  the  man,  in  Italian,  'that  your  grief 
is  very  heavy.  Can  the  Church  do  nothing  to  console 
you  ?' 

" '  I  do  not  speak  Italian  well  enough  to  converse  in 
it ;  my  language  is  English,'  was  the  reply. 

"Then  followed  a  few  sentences  in  a  low  tone  which 
I  could  not  hear — which,  indeed,  I  did  not  try  to  hear, 
for  what  had  I  to  do  with  them?  and  then  I  heard  an 
exclamation  of  joy — '  Selim,  Selim  !  at  last,  at  last !' — and 
I  remembered  the  voice. 

"  '  Where,  where  have  you  wandered  ?  Every  day  for  a 
year  and  more  I  have  been  on  this  spot  at  noon,  and  you 
came  not ;  though  when  we  parted  you  said  we  should 
meet  here  to-morrow.' 

"  '  I  have  been  a  fugitive.  Yesterday  was  the  first  day 
I  have  been  able  to  enter  Jerusalem,  and  last  night  I 
was  again  compelled  to  assume  a  disguise.  But  all  is 
over.  We  will  not  part  again.' 

"  '  Thank  God  !  thank  God  !' 

"  That  voice  !  that  voice  !  It  had  now  haunted  me 
four-and-twenty  hours.  I  had  made  it  the  business  of 
my  life  for  those  hours;  had  built  up  the  fabrics  of  ten; 

D 


50  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

twenty,  a  hundred  lives  on  that  voice.  I  had  thought, 
fancied,  dreamed  about  it,  until  I  had  some  sort  of  no- 
tion that  I  had  property  in  it.  And  this  priest  was  the 
robber  of  what  I  had,  it  seemed  to  me,  possessed  a  life- 
time. And  I  was  strangely  moved  when  I  heard  him 
repeat  tenderly,  'Darling,  it  is  all  over  now;  we  will  not 
part  again.' 

"  They  came  out  together  and  passed  me,  neither  one 
noticing  my  presence.  He  wore  the  dress  of  a  Greek 
priest.  They  marry  wives ;  so  there  was  nothing  very 
strange  about  this  meeting.  She  was  dressed  in  the  or- 
dinary black-silk  bag  of  a  wealthy  Oriental  lady,  and  the 
waddle  which  her  loose  shoes  made  necessary  was  the 
remotest  possible  resemblance  to  the  graceful  step  of  the 
day  previous. 

"  I  followed  them  to  the  doorway,  the  street,  down  by 
the  Mediterranean  Hotel,  across  the  street  of  David,  and 
just  there  he  turned  and  left  her.  While  I  looked  at 
him  she  was  gone,  and  I  lost  them  both  in  the  crowd. 
I  had  no  object  in  following  either.  My  little  romance 
of  twenty-four  hours  was  over,  and  I  had  seen  the  begin- 
ning and  end  of  it. 

"  I  went  to  my  shop  and  sold  silks  till  the  sun  set.  and 
then  home,  to  sit  by  the  doorway  and  dream. 

"  How  much  I  dreamed  in  those  long  years  of  Eastern 
life.  I  dreamed  the  sunniest  dreams  —  of  bright  coun- 
tries, rich  with  olives  and  pomegranates,  and  palms  bear- 
ing dates  of  Ibreem  !  I  dreamed  that  night  of  my  old 
home  in  America.  I  heard  the  wind  in  the  tree  over 
the  gate.  I  heard  the  quail  whistling  in  the  corn-field 
down  the  valley.  I  heard  the  dash  of  the  water  over  the 
little  mill-dam  in  the  ravine.  I  heard  the  voice  of  my 
father,  stern,  calm,  not  affectionate,  but  always  kind.  I 


ISKANDER    EFFENDI.  51 

heard  most  of  all  the  voice  of  my  Christian  mother,  pray- 
ing alone,  as  she  was  accustomed  to  pray;  for  my  father 
forbade  her  praying  with  me,  and  that  I  believe  killed 
her.  Many  a  time  I  had  wondered  whether  there  was 
not  something  in  that  religion  of  my  gentle  mother,  and 
now  it  came  over  me  with  a  hitherto  unknown  force.  1 
knew  the  Christian  story  well.  Every  word  of  it  I  had 
read  over  and  over  in  former  years,  for  my  mother's 
prayers  were  not  prayers  to  be  overheard  and  forgotten  ; 
and  now,  as  the  sunlight  faded  above  Jerusalem,  I  re- 
membered the  story  of  the  Passion,  and,  recalling  all  its 
touching  mournfulness,  I  bowed  my  head. 

"  '  Iskander  the  Jew  is  sorrowful  to-night.' 

"  It  was  my  rescuer  of  the  night  previous.  He  was 
alone,  and  would  pause  now  but  a  moment. 

" '  I  saw  you  in  the  bazaar  yesterday/  he  said. 

"  '  But  I  saw  you  not.' 

"'You  do  not  recognize  a  Druse  without  his  head- 
dress.' 

"  I  started  to  my  feet.  He  smiled,  and  went  on 
quietly. 

" '  You  speak  English.  I  heard  you  when  I  shot  at 
the  scoundrelly  Bedouin.' 

"'And  you  replied  in  English.' 

"'Very  true.  We  will  drop  the  Arabic  then,  and  use 
the  vernacular,  especially  as  we  may  be  overheard.  You 
are  an  American.' 

"  '  How  know  you  that  ?' 

" '  Because  no  Englishman  could  do  the  Oriental  as 
you  have,  and  more  especially  because  of  our  last  night's 
experience.  I  am  from  New  York  myself,  long  ago; 
you  ?' 

"  '  From  the  same  city.' 


52  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

"  '  We  are  fellow-countrymen,  as  I  supposed  last  night ; 
and  now  will  you  do  me  a  service  ?  One  must  ask 
strange  things  at  times.  There  is  a  lady  in  the  case,  too. 
Will  you  give  house-room  to  one  in  whom  I  have  a  deep 
interest  ?  You  have  women  about  your  house,  I  suppose. 
Your  porter  has  a  wife  or  two,  if  he's  a  Moslem — one,  at 
least,  if  he's  a  Jew — I  am  right  ?  Yes ;  and  will  you 
then  let  me  bring  her  here  for  a  little  while?  She  will 
not  disturb  your  quiet.  I  will  say  nothing  about  paying 
board  just  now;  for  I  think  you  understand  that  I  am 
not  of  the  kind  likely  to  ask  a  service  and  leave  it  unre- 
warded, nor  do  I  think  you  are  one  to  ask  or  receive  re- 
ward for  hospitality.' 

"It  was  a  very  sudden  thing;  but  in  ten  minutes  it 
was  arranged,  and  in  ten  more  the  lady,  closely  veiled, 
was  in  my  house.  The  house  was  built  around  a  court- 
yard. The  rooms  on  each  side  were  reached  only  by 
steps  descending  into  the  court.  She  had  one  side  of 
the  house,  and  Hebrew  women-servants  were  engaged  for 
her.  When  she  was  at  length  in  possession  of  her  rooms, 
he  came  to  me  and  said  quietly, '  Will  you  see  her  ?' 

"  I  followed  him  to  the  harem.  Little  did  I  dream  of 
what  awaited  me.  When  I  reached  the  room,  I  found 
before  me,  radiant  in  all  her  splendid  beauty,  the  lady  of 
the  church — such  I  knew  her  by  the  dress  and  chain  of 
gold — and  the  lady  was  Edith  ! 

"  I  was  calm.  When  was  I  ever  otherwise  ?  She  did 
not  recognize  me.  Why  should  she  ?  She  thanked  me. 
for  the  hospitality,  and  I  replied  briefly,  and  retired  to 
my  seat  in  the  gateway,  where,  a  little  later,  he  left  me, 
pressing  my  hand  and  uttering  that  word  which  all  Orient- 
als understand  as  meaning, 'I  trust  you  as  I  trust  my  God.' 

"  How  faithfully  I  kept  that  trust !     At  first  life  seemed 


ISKANDER    EFFENDI.  53 

terrible  to  me.  To  have  her  in  my  house  all  day  and 
night,  unseen,  unapproached,  to  know  that  she  loved  an- 
other, to  half  suspect  that  she  was  not  true  even  to  him, 
to  spend  my  days  in  watching  the  churches  and  bazaars 
for  the  priest,  my  nights  in  imagining  her  story,  of  which 
I  knew  no  word — this  was  very  hard.  Daily  the  young 
man,  known  to  me  only  as  Selim  Bey,  as  I  was  known  to 
him  only  as  Iskander,  came  to  the  house  and  went  in  to 
her  apartments.  Daily  he  paused  and  talked  with  me  a 
little  while,  until  he  said,  one  day, '  Iskander,  I  shall  be 
absent  now  some  days.  Go  in  and  see  Edith  once  in  a 
while  •  she  will  be  lonely.' 

"  I  must  pass  along  now  rapidly  with  my  story.  I  did 
see  her.  I  never  saw  woman  half  so  lovely.  At  first  I 
but  spoke  with  her  at  the  doorway  of  her  rooms  in  the 
evening  and  the  morning.  Then  I  persuaded  her  to  walk 
out  with  me.  First  we  climbed  the  wall  on  Mount  Zion; 
then  we  rambled  around  the  city.  Now  we  walked  down 
the  Valley  of  Jehoshaphat,  now  ascended  the  sunny  slopes 
of  Olivet.  Sometimes  we  walked  as  far  as  Bethany.  Once 
we  went  on  horseback  to  Bethlehem.  All  this  time  she 
wound  around  me  the  delicious  bonds  of  love. 

"  I  know  not  that  I  should  say  any  thing  of  myself, 
but  I  may  at  least  assert  that  I  was  not  a  man  to  despise 
either  for  physical  or  mental  reasons.  I  was  young  and 
strong.  I  had  studied  much,  read  much,  traveled  much. 
There  were  few  subjects  of  ordinary  conversation  in  such 
a  country  with  which  I  was  not  familiar,  and  she  needed 
no  other  guide  about  the  Holy  City.  And  while  I  named 
all  the  places,  she  told  me  all  the  thrilling  Christian  his- 
tories that  cling  to  them. 

"  A  month  glided  by.  It  was  the  month  of  May,  most 
delicious  of  all  the  year  in  Jerusalem. 


54  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

"  One  day  I  was  sitting  on  the  front  of  my  shop,  in  that 
listless  way  that  had  now  come  over  me,  wrapped  in  the 
consciousness  of  present  enjoyment,  and  diligently  keep- 
ing out  of  my  brain  the  bitter  truth  that  I  was  dreaming 
of  a  delight  that  was  to  end  suddenly  and  forever  when 
Selim  should  return.  I  was  as  happy  as  man  could  be. 
I  had  thoroughly  adapted  myself  to  the  Oriental  fatalism, 
content  with  the  present  though  the  next  moment  should 
bring  destruction. 

"Thus  indulging  my  fancy,  I  sat  with  my  eyes  half 
closed,  and  Achmed  Haraga,  the  money-changer,  might 
well  have  thought  me  sleeping.  Nor,  indeed,  did  I  my- 
self see  the  Bedouin,  who,  gliding  by  me,  entered  into  a 
conversation  with  the  man  of  gold  and  silver,  until  sud- 
denly my  ear  caught  the  name  of  Selim  Bey.  Then  I 
listened. 

"  '  He  will  come  by  the  well  of  Birreh.  We  will  not 
fail.  The  sons  of  Ibrahim  never  forget.  But  the  arms 
we  must  have.' 

" '  You  shall  have  them  to-night  at  the  Damascus  gate. 
But  the  bracelets  must  be  here  to-day.' 

" '  They  are  here.' 

"  And  the  Arab  produced  a  small  package  of  heavy 
gold  bracelets,  such  as  the  Orientals  are  accustomed  to 
make  rudely  out  of  coin  as  a  convenient  means  of  invest- 
ment. When  they  desire  money  for  use,  the  bracelets 
pass  with  the  money-changers  for  their  gold  value. 

*'  Khalifah,  the  Bedouin,  had  been  made  the  messenger 
of  his  tribe  to  negotiate  a  purchase  of  arms ;  and,  from  the 
circumstances,  I  could  not  doubt  that  they  were  to  be 
used  in  an  attack  on  Selim,  doubtless  in  revenge  for  the 
ignominious  overthrow  of  the  Arab  in  the  bazaar;  for  the 
man  was  the  same. 


ISKANDER    EFFENDI.  55 

"  My  resolution  was  taken  at  once. 

"  I  closed  my  shop,  and,  hastening  home,  inquired  of 
Edith  when  she  expected  Selim.  He  was  to  return  the 
next  day.  I  must  be  at  the  well  of  Birreh,  then,  in  the 
morning,  and  watch  for  him  to  the  northward  on  the  road 
to  Galilee.  I  had  not  been  living  thus  long  in  Jerusalem 
without  providing  for  myself  the  means  of  assistance  in 
just  such  cases  as  this.  For  in  the  East  we  were  liable 
at  any  moment  to  need  the  strongest  personal  defenses; 
and  among  my  household  goods  I  had  a  store  of  arms, 
while  among  my  acquaintances  were  men  I  could  depend 
on  for  such  emergencies.  But  the  time  was  brief. 

"  Near  Bir  Ayoub,  on  the  Jaffa  road,  I  once  found  an 
Arab  in  distress,  and  succored  him.  No  matter  now  for 
the  particulars.  He  was  one  of  the  men  of  Abu  Goash, 
the  robber-chief.  My  man  and  his  family  were  bound 
to  me  by  the  Eastern  laws  of  gratitude.  Seven  stout  men 
with  horses  I  could  count  on  from  among  them,  and  to 
them  I  dispatched  a  messenger  before  the  gates  of  Jeru- 
salem were  shut  at  sunset.  They  would  have  no  diffi- 
culty in  reaching  the  appointed  place  of  meeting  by  day- 
break in  the  morning.  I  myself  with  one  of  my  servants 
mounted  and  left  the  city  in  the  night,  carrying  about  us 
enough  of  the  Frankish  weapons  to  arm  our  expected 
band.  I  had  a  perfect  arsenal  of  revolvers  in  my  belt 
and  shawl,  and  Mousa,  my  man,  carried  as  many.  We 
rode  northward  by  the  starlight,  picking  our  dangerous 
way  among  the  rocks;  for  there  are  no  roads  in  Syria, 
and  night  travel  is  next  to  impossible.  You  know  them 
well,  Effendi.  The  moon  rose  a  little  before  the  dawn, 
and  by  its  deceptive  light  we  passed  the  well  of  Birreh, 
and  the  great  fields  of  rocks  that  lie  around  the  site  of 
Bethel  of  old.  In  the  olive-groves  near  Ain  Haramieh 


56  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

we  paused,  and  as  the  day  was  breaking  we  met  my  ex- 
pected allies — ten  swarthy  sons  of  Ishmael,  mounted  on 
mares  of  pure  blood,  ready  for  any  service  that  I  might 
require  of  man  or  beast.  I  waited  here,  trusting  to  inter- 
cept my  friend,  who  would  come  from  Nablous  by  this 
route.  How  many  men  he  might  have  with  him  I  could 
not  guess ;  but  Edith  thought  it  improbable  that  he  would 
bring  more  than  one  attendant. 

"  As  the  day  came  up,  and  I  waited  by  the  side  of  the 
way,  I  confess  to  you  that  for  the  first  time  a  terrible 
thought  came  to  me.  What  was  this  half  Druse,  half 
American,  to  me,  that  I  should  risk  my  life  for  his  ?  Were 
he  out  of  the  way,  might  not  Edith  the  beautiful  be  mine  ? 
I  never  heard  her  name  him  with  the  tone  that  one  uses 
in  speaking  of  an  absent  lover.  Did  she  love  him  so 
much,  after  all  ?  Who  then  was  the  Greek  priest  ?  what 
was  this  mystery  ?  I  had  scarcely  asked  myself  the  ques- 
tion before.  I  had  been  listless,  stupid,  Oriental  in  my 
ways  of  thinking.  Edith  was  after  all  as  likely  to  be 
mine  as  to  be  his  or  the  Greek  priest's. 

"  Hours  glided  along,  and  we  waited  under  the  olive- 
trees,  and  I  thought  thus  a  hundred  wild  thoughts.  The 
tempter  was  with  me,  and  might  have  triumphed  but  for 
a  sudden  interruption. 

"  A  volley  of  fire-arms  sounded  in  the  valley  below. 
We  sprang  to  the  saddle,  and  dashed  down  the  road  at 
a  furious  gallop.  The  scene  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  ex- 
plained itself.  The  attack  that  was  planned  for  the  well 
of  Birreh  had  been  for  some  reason  changed  to  the  Har- 
amieh  fountain,  and,  as  we  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
we  found  Selim  standing  with  his  back  to  the  bank  at 
the  side  of  the  horse-path,  beset  by  full  a  score  of  Arabs, 
whose  volley  had  killed  his  two  companions. 


ISKANDER    EFFENDI.  57 

"  The  young  American  was  ready  to  sell  his  life  dearly. 
He  had  fired  his  revolver  twice  with  fatal  precision,  but, 
as  the  enemy  approached  him,  he  had  drawn  his  short 
yataghan,  and,  with  the  strength  and  skill  of  an  accom- 
plished swordsman,  was  keeping  off  the  heads  of  a  dozen 
lances  that  were  seeking  his  breast.  How  easily  at  that 
instant  I  might  have  been  left  alone  to  protect  Edith  the 
beautiful !  But  I  did  not  pause.  We  descended  on  the 
Arab  horde  like  a  thunderbolt.  Seven  saddles  were 
empty  before  we  closed  with  them,  and  then  the  contest 
was  brief  and  decisive.  Five  of  the  Oulad  Ibrahim  fled 
across  the  hill,  and  a  ball  from  my  revolver  lamed  for- 
ever the  horse  on  which  the  last  one  rode. 

"  But  the  Druse  chieftain  was  not  where  I  had  found 
him.  He  lay  on  the  ground,  bleeding  from  a  ghastly 
wound.  As  I  sprang  to  his  side  he  murmured,  the  words 
gurgling  in  blood,  'Lift  me,  Iskander — gently.  It's  all 
up  with  me.' 

"  I  lifted  him  with  one  arm  around  his  shoulders.  His 
head  fell  on  my  breast,  but  he  revived  a  little  at  the 
change  in  his  position.  We  made  a  litter  of  branches, 
and  carried  him  gently  to  Birreh.  I  had  sent  a  messen- 
ger for  Edith,  and  she  arrived  at  the  huts  by  the  well  just 
as  we  brought  him  there.  We  carried  him  into  the  cov- 
ered house,  the  pilgrim's  resting-place  by  the  well,  and 
made  him  as  comfortable  as  we  could ;  but  life  was  fast 
ebbing  away,  and  when  the  evening  approached  he  was 
dying. 

"  Edith  sat  by  him,  Edith  the  beautiful — how  beauti- 
ful !  There  was  no  wild  emotion  of  grief  in  the  dear 
girl.  She  sat  down  by  his  side  as  the  wife  of  a  chieftain 
of  Mount  Lebanon  should,  and  tenderly  cared  for  him 
with  tearless  eyes. 


58  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

"  At  length,  as  I  sat  holding  his  head  on  my  breast, 
he  turned  his  face  so  as  to  look  up  into  my  eyes.  His 
gaze  was  long  and  steadfast,  as  if  his  soul  would  pierce 
my  own.  Then  he  spoke  slowly,  painfully,  in  Arabic. 

" '  Thy  face  has  all  the  tenderness  of  the  face  that 
comes  to  me  in  dreams.  Her  face — so  heavenly  !' 

Ali  Benhammed,  my  Arab  friend,  stood  looking  at  us, 
and,  as  the  features  of  the  dying  chief  lay  close  to  mine, 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  astonishment.  The  other 
Arabs  crowding  around  said  aloud,  '  They  are  brothers !' 

"  '  Iskander  Effendi,'  said  Ali  to  me, '  is  the  Druse  your 
brother  ?' 

"  There  was  something  in  the  question  that  startled 
me. 

"  '  Selim,  who  was  your  father,'  I  said. 

"  '  Why  seek  to  know,  Iskander  ?  Even  Edith  never 
knew.' 

" '  Because  my  father  was  a  Hebrew,  and  my  mother 
a  Christian,  and  they  have  told  me  that  my  younger 
brother  died.' 

" '  Allah  !  can  this  be  !'  he  exclaimed,  trembling  so 
that  Edith,  who  did  not  understand  us,  for  we  talked  in 
Arabic,  sprang  to  his  side,  fearing  that  this  was  the  death- 
struggle.  But  it  was  not  yet  the  hour  of  parting.  I  had 
found  my  kindred ;  for  Selim  the  Druse  was  verily  my 
brother  !  Found  him  for  one  hour — one  hour — and  after 
that,  where  should  we  meet  again  ?  In  the  Jerusalem  of 
Abraham  and  Isaac  and  Jacob,  or  never  again  ? 

"  The  story  was  told  slowly  in  broken  accents,  and 
Edith  and  I  listened  all  the  night,  wiping  his  lips  and 
begging  him  to  rest.  But  he  would  tell  it,  and  we  heard 
it  all.  Briefly,  all  that  concerns  you  to  know  was  this : 

"  Between  our  father  and  mother  was  made  an  agree- 


ISKANDER    EFFENDI.  59 

ment,  of  which  I  never  heard  until  I  now  learned  it  from 
my  brother.  It  was  that  their  children  should  be  edu- 
cated alternately  in  the  faith  of  the  father  and  the  moth- 
er. The  first  child  was  to  be  educated  by  the  father, 
and  this  was  duly  carried  out  with  me.  But  when  the 
second  child  was  born,  the  father  caused  the  mother  to 
believe  that  it  survived  only  a  few  hours,  while  he,  in  fact, 
conveyed  the  babe  to  his  friends  in  a  distant  city,  where 
he  was  brought  up  in  ignorance  of  his  parentage,  and  in 
the  Hebrew  faith. 

"  The  guardian  of  the  boy  was  abundantly  supplied 
with  money,  and  was  instructed  to  spare  no  expense  in 
his  education.  He  finally  brought  him  to  Jerusalem, 
where,  in  the  midst  of  the  impressive  scenes  that  sur- 
rounded him,  and  in  the  presence  of  his  father,  the  story 
of  his  birth  was  revealed.  He  was  a  boy  of  spirit,  and 
the  history  had  not  the  effect  that  was  anticipated.  His 
soul  revolted  at  it.  He  disowned  his  father,  ran  away 
from  his  guardian,  and  sought  to  escape  the  bitterness 
of  his  own  anger  by  leading  the  life  of  an  adventurer  in 
the  East.  Chance  threw  him  among  the  Druses,  and  he 
became  one  of  them.  His  education  and  skill  soon  en- 
abled him  to  control  the  fiery  race  of  the  followers  of 
El-Hakim,  and  he  became  an  Emir.  Several  years  had 
passed,  and  he  was  engaged  in  plots  for  the  overthrow 
of  the  Turkish  power  in  the  entire  pashalic  of  Damas- 
cus. He  was  the  head  of  the  conspiracy.  Its  branches 
extended  from  Alexandria  to  Aleppo.  Three  years  pre- 
viously he  had  rescued  from  the  hands  of  an  attacking 
party  of  Bedouins  a  little  group  of  travelers.  An  old 
man  and  his  daughter  were  among  them — Americans — 
who  were  traveling,  with  two  Englishmen  in  the  party. 
The  fright  rendered  the  old  man  helpless,  and  the  Druse 


60  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

chief  took  him  on  a  litter  to  his  own  house  in  the  Leb- 
anon hills.  I  might  have  said  his  palace,  for  such  it  was. 
For  six  months  the  father  lingered  in  the  Druse  fastness, 
and  during  that  time  his  daughter  won  the  heart  of  the 
Druse  chieftain  ;  then  the  father  died,  and  the  daughter 
was  left  in  his  home.  They  were  married  after  the  Druse 
fashion;  but  she  was  of  American  faith,  and  the  cere- 
mony, though  she  yielded  to  it  at  the  time,  never  seemed 
to  her  a  valid  marriage,  and  she  pined  at  the  thought  of 
her  dishonor.  Then  he  carried  her  to  Jerusalem,  that 
they  might  be  married  there  by  the  English  bishop;  but 
when  he  was  arranging  it,  sudden  flight  became  neces- 
sary. He  promised  to  meet  her  at  the  Sepulchre  the 
next  day  at  noon  in  disguise,  and  with  this  hasty  prom- 
ise he  left  her  alone  in  the  Holy  City.  For  a  year  he 
dared  not  approach  her,  remaining  among  his  mountain 
warriors,  while  she  was  shut  up  in  the  house  of  an  Arab 
woman,  visiting  only  the  Church  of  the  Sepulchre  daily, 
to  watch  and  weep  and  pray.  He  met  her  there  at  last, 
disguised  as  a  priest,  in  the  Chapel  of  the  Angel,  and 
that  night  they  were  married  by  the  English  prelate. 
Then  he  placed  her  in  my  charge,  and  then  followed  the 
events  already  known. 

"  And  so  I  had  found  my  kindred.  I  was  not  alone 
now. 

"  '  I  thank  God  for  this,  Iskander.  I  have  not  thanked 
God  before  since— since —  Iskander,  thou  art  of  the 
faith  of  our  father  ?' 

" '  Nay,  Selim ;  I  think  I  could  be  a  Christian  since  I 
have  known  thy  wife  Edith.  The  curse  of  my  mother's 
father  made  me  hate  the  Christian  faith.  So  the  sin  of 
my  father  has  well  nigh  won  me  to  it  by  sending  her  to 
me.  Our  mother  was  an  angel  of  God.  Selim.' 


ISKANDER    EFFENDI.  6  I 

"  Edith  knelt  by  his  side  and  whispered — 

"  '  And  thou,  Selim  ?' 

" '  I  almost  believe  in  thy  words,  dear  one.  I  have 
wandered  far  from  the  dear  old  land.  I  have  long  for- 
gotten all  faith.  But  thou  hast  almost  won  me.  Speak 
to  me  of  the  Son  of  Mary.' 

"  So  she  spoke  gently  in  low  accents  of  singular  melody 
— telling  us  all  the  story  of  the  Passion  and  the  Exaltation. 
And  Selim,  lying  on  the  ground  at  Beitin — even  where 
his  father  Jacob  lay  of  old — by  the  same  spring  that 
soothed  the  sleep  of  Israel,  saw,  as  his  father  saw,  the 
heavens  opened,  and  angels  ascending  and  descending. 
And  the  face  of  Edith  was  the  holiest  of  all,  as  she  knelt 
by  his  side  and  prayed. 

"  Effendi,  I  believe  that  the  prayers  were  heard.  Doubt- 
less the  smile  of  joy  that  stole  over  his  face  as  the  dawn 
came  into  the  east  was  the  answer  of  our  God,  the  God 
of  Jacob.  When  the  sun  was  rising  over  the  hills  of 
Moab,  he  stretched  his  right  hand  out,  and  threw  it  over 
Edith's  neck,  and  drew  her  down  to  him,  and  pressed  his 
lips  to  hers  in  a  long  kiss,  and  then  I  received  her  in  my 
arms  as  she  fell  back  from  his  dead  embrace. 

"  We  buried  him  under  the  wall  of  Jerusalem,  outside 
the  Zion  gate,  where  the  Christian  dead  are  congregated. 
P^dith  and  I  prayed  at  the  Sepulchre  together  that  after- 
noon. 

"  I  closed  my  shop  in  the  bazaar,  sold  my  silks  to  the 
merchants,  and  with  Edith  came  to  America.  I  am  grow- 
ing old.  Edith  is  dead.  Her  child,  whom  you  remember, 
is  lying  yonder  under  the  pine-tree.  All  that  I  have  loved 
best  is  gone  out  of  this  world.  But  you  know  me  well 
enough  to  know  that  I  am  not  a  gloomy  man,  though  very 
lonesome  and  surrounded  by  many  sad  recollections. 


62  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

Sometimes  I  am  heavily  oppressed  with  the  weight  of  all 
that  I  have  seen  and  suffered,  and  when  the  load  grows 
too  heavy,  I  leave  my  city  home  and  come  here  to  go 
a-fishing.  So  I  grow  calm,  patient,  and  content.  So, 
Effendi,  it  grows  to  be  well  with  me — it  is  peace. 

"  '  Salaam  aleikoum  Ya  Effendi !' 

"'Es  salamak  Ya  Braheem.'  " 

And  peace  was  with  us  all  that  night. 


IV. 

MORNING  TROUT;   EVENING  TALK. 

EARLY  next  morning  I  was  out  to  breathe  the  air. 
There  had  been  a  shower  in  the  night,  but  the  sun  rose 
clear,  and  I  saw  the  first  rays  that  found  their  way  down 
into  the  valley.  The  drops  of  last  night's  moisture  yet 
remaining  on  the  leaves  sparkled  and  shone  like  dia- 
monds. There  was  a  flock  of  young  goslings  in  the  pond 
when  I  approached  it,  and  they  seemed  to  enjoy  the  sun- 
shine keenly.  I  fancy  they  had  never  seen  it  but  two  or 
three  mornings  before,  and  it  might  well  astonish  them. 

Think  of  it !  Suppose,  my  friend,  that  you  had  never 
seen  the  sunshine  but  twice  or  three  times  in  your  life, 
with  what  splendor  would  the  great  day  king  roll  up  the 
eastern  sky  for  you;  with  what  glory  would  the  heavens 
be  filled  ;  with  what  unutterable  magnificence  would  he 
go  down  the  west;  and  in  what  wondering  awe,  and  si- 
lent, voiceless  astonishment  would  he  leave  you  in  the 
still  and  solemn  twilight !  Is  the  sunshine  any  less  grand, 
or  the  sun's  pathway  any  less  glorious,  or  the  day's  de- 
cline any  less  stately,  in  fact,  than  it  would  be  if  you  had 
been  born  in  a  cavern,  and  had  never  seen  the  daylight 
till  to-day? 

Why,  then,  is  it  so  commonplace  ? 

"  Because  you  are  used  to  it,  and  have  seen  enough  of 
it."  Is  that  your  answer  ? 


64  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

Man,  there  will  come  an  hour  when,  as  a  just  punish- 
ment for  that  hackneyism  of  soul  that  you  permit  and  are 
proud  of,  God  will  shut  out  the  glories  of  his  world  from 
your  vision,  and,  in  the  gathering  gloom  that  shall  then 
thicken  around  you,  you  will  cry  out  for  light ;  but  the 
broad  glare  of  the  noonday  sun  shall  not  then  prevail  to 
pierce  the  shadows. 

I  was  speaking  of  the  goslings.  They  shook  their  tiny 
wings  in  the  first  sunlight,  and  poked  their  bills  less  fre- 
quently under  them,  and  moved  about  with  more  freedom 
as  I  was  approaching  the  pond,  when  suddenly  I  saw 
them  rush  in  confusion  hither  and  thither,  and  so  great 
was  their  consternation  that  I  did  not  miss  one  of  them 
that  had  disappeared  under  the  water.  But  a  moment 
later,  a  mink  stole  out  of  the  water  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  pond,  and  before  I  could  throw  a  stone  at  him,  almost 
before  I  could  shout,  he  disappeared  in  the  wood  with  a 
youngster  in  his  felonious  jaws. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Philip,  approaching  while  I  was 
staring  after  the  wretch — "  never  mind  ;  the  gosling  would 
only  have  lived  to  be  a  goose." 

"  It  isn't  the  loss  of  a  gosling,  but  the  audacity  of  the 
thief.  I  can't  bear  such  impertinence." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?" 

"  Take  a  ride  and  think  of  it." 

"  Agreed.     But  not  till  we  have  had  breakfast." 

The  black  ponies  were  before  the  light  spring  wagon, 
and  Philip,  with  Dr.  Johnston,  drove,  while  John  and  my- 
self went  in  the  saddle.  Under  the  seat  of  the  wagon 
were  carefully  stowed  the  rods  and  a  fowling-piece ;  for 
it  is  a  safe  rule  that  a  sportsman  pursues — never  to  be 
without  his  tools  when  there  is  even  a  bare  possibility  that 
he  mav  want  them. 


SQUIRREL   SHOOTING.  65 

Down  the  glen-shaded  lane  the  wagon  rattled,  and  we 
brought  up  the  rear  at  a  gallop,  which  soon  exhilarated 
us,  and  as  we  turned  into  the  road  we  flew  by  the  wagon, 
and  led  up  the  long  hill  through  the  forest.  The  road 
was  in  a  capital  condition.  The  shower  had  not  left  a 
drop  of  standing  water.  Even  the  horses  seemed  to  ap- 
preciate the  freshness  of  the  air  and  the  purity  of  the 
morning.  As  we  crossed  the  hill-top,  John  caught  sight 
of  a  gray  squirrel  in  the  road,  and  with  a  shout  dashed 
off  after  him.  The  quick  fellow  was  as  fast  as  six  horses, 
and  was  up  an  oak-tree  before  the  gray  had  made  his 
third  leap.  The  wagon  was  close  behind,  and  John  sprang 
to  the  ground,  and,  throwing  his  rein  to  Philip,  seized  the 
gun,  and  called  me  to  help  him  "  surround  the  squirrel." 

There  is  no  "season"  for  squirrel  shooting.  Enemies 
to  the  farmer,  they  are  to  be  regarded  as  fair  game  in 
spring,  summer,  or  autumn.  "  Surrounding"  a  gray  squir- 
rel is  one  of  the  most  exciting  of  forest  sports.  The  game 
is  small,  but  the  fun  is  always  large.  I  have  had  as  much 
exhilaration,  excitement,  and  fatigue  in  a  gray -squirrel 
hunt  as  in  any  bear  or  wolf  hunt  it  was  ever  my  fortune 
to  join.  I  rode  around  the  tree  half  a  dozen  times,  while 
John  stood  watching  to  catch  a  whisk  of  the  squirrel's 
tail  or  the  slightest  motion  of  his  body.  But  he  was  en- 
sconced in  some  crotch  or  cavity  of  the  limbs,  and  would 
not  stir.  At  length  I  dismounted,  and,  taking  a  large 
stone,  commenced  hammering  on  the  trunk.  It  would 
seem  as  if  these  fellows  were  used  to  having  their  trees 
cut  down,  and  themselves  caught  in  that  way,  for  gener- 
ally, when  they  hear  a  sound  and  feel  a  trembling  that  re- 
sembles the  blows  of  an  axe,  they  hasten  to  evacuate; 
and  so  this  one,  when  I  began  to  pound,  started  for  the 
next  tree,  and  was  stopped  in  the  air  by  the  load  of  shot 

E 


66  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

which  John  sent  after  him.  He  fell  fifty  feet  in  a  sheer 
fall,  and  struck  the  ground  with  a  sound  like  a  falling 
stone.  Used  to  their  proceedings,  John  sprang  for  him, 
but  he  was  not  there.  Quick  as  a  flash,  he  was  up  the 
next  tree,  and  the  second  load  of  shot  rattled  into  the 
trunk  as  his  gray  tail  whisked  around  the  other  side  of  it, 
and  he  went  up  into  leafy  obscurity. 

While  John  loaded,  I  laughed ;  and  now  mounting 
again,  I  rode  around  among  the  trees,  and  at  length  caught 
sight  of  the  squirrel,  apparently  sky-gazing,  among  the 
leaves  on  the  extreme  topmost  branch  of  the  tree,  quite 
out  of  reach  of  shot.  How  to  dislodge  him  was  the  ques- 
tion, for,  as  to  mounting  the  tree,  neither  of  us  would  think 
of  it ;  and  while  we  took  breath  and  cogitated,  Simmons, 
shoe-maker  at  the  cross-roads,  came  trudging  up  the  road, 
with  his  rifle  on  his  shoulder,  bound  on  a  hunt.  Of  him 
John  borrowed  the  weapon  that  had  been  for  so  many- 
years  familiar  to  his  hands,  and  with  a  light  toss  and  a 
quick  sight  he  shot.  The  squirrel  came  down,  plunging 
through  the  leaves  of  the  tree,  and  by  limbs  where,  had  he 
been  living,  he  would  have  caught  and  held  on,  and 
struck  the  ground  close  by  my  horse,  who  sprang  into  the 
air  and  kept  me  occupied  in  quieting  him  till  John  had 
placed  his  gun  and  game  in  the  wagon,  and  was  mounted 
by  my  side. 

Then  we  dashed  off  and  down  the  hill-side,  still  through 
forest,  pausing  now  and  then  to  gather  flowers  or  to  rest 
in  cool,  deep  shades,  and  once  to  drink  of  a  spring  that 
trickled  from  the  bank,  clear  and  cold. 

Passing  across  the  plain,  we  paused  at  the  gate  of  a 
house  which  stood  under  a  large  oak-tree,  to  inquire  after 
the  health  of  an  old  man,  the  oldest  man  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, whose  years  were  well-nigh  exhausted.  Thev  told 


COUNTRY   SADNESS.  67 

us  sadly  that  he  was  no  better.  They  need  not  have  told 
us.  There  was  a  look  about  the  place  which  said  the 
same  before  we  saw  them.  There  is  always  a  something 
about  the  country  that  indicates  the  sadness  or  happiness 
of  the  country  folk.  The  first  sound  that  we  heard  on 
approaching  was  the  creak  of  the  well-pole,  and  it  was  a 
mournful  sound,  different  from  its  usual  tone  of  cheer ; 
for  there  is  music  in  that  creaking  pole  when  swiftly  han- 
dled. Then  we  heard  a  gate  swinging,  and  the  rattle  of 
the  chain,  and  there  was  something  unusually  sad  about 
that.  There  was  a  flock  of  geese  on  the  road  near  the 
house,  and  they  were  all  silent  as  we  passed;  and  the  old 
turkey  on  the  wall  looked  and  stretched  his  head  out,  and 
his  long,  red  neck  was  glistening  in  the  sun,  but  he  uttered 
none  of  his  accustomed  exclamations  of  pride.  The  shut- 
ters of  the  old  windows  were  closed.  There  was  not  one 
open  on  all  the  end  of  the  house  toward  the  road.  In 
short,  there  was  an  indescribable  something  about  the 
place  which  you  who  have  lived  in  the  country  will  un- 
derstand, and  which  you  who  have  never  lived  there  can 
not  be  made  to  understand,  which  indicated  that  those  in 
the  house  were  in  deep  affliction  of  some  sort,  either  bid- 
ding adieu  to  one  who  was  going,  or  looking  at  the  vacant 
place  of  one  who  had  gone. 

We  did  not  go  in,  but  remained  at  the  gate  while  the 
Doctor  entered,  bearing  the  kind  wishes  of  all  our  party; 
and  as  we  drove  on  afterward  we  were  somewhat  sad- 
dened by  his  description  of  the  wan  features  and  long 
white  hair  of  the  good  old  man,  who  was  so  soon  to  depart 
from  the  scenes  that  he  had  loved  for  eighty  years. 

And  now  with  a  short  turn  we  left  the  road,  and  entered 
a  forest  that  is  almost  like  an  oak  opening  of  prairie  land. 
Here  we  rested,  and,  leaving  the  horses,  strolled  down  the 


68  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

hill  in  the  deep  shade  to  a  spot  of  more  sylvan  beauty 
than  I  can  describe. 

Here  the  trees  are  very  lofty,  growing  from  rich,  deep 
soil.  There  are  no  branches  on  them  for  fifty  feet,  and  at 
that  height  or  a  greater  they  interlace  their  branches, 
and  what  sunshine  comes  through  comes  feloniously,  and 
steals  down  as  if  half  fearful  of  being  driven  out.  A  trav- 
eling stream,  a  cool,  merry  child  of  the  hills  and  woods, 
comes  dashing  down  the  side  of  the  hill  over  a  rocky  bed, 
and,  leaping  at  last  with  a  bound  of  delight  into  a  moss- 
edged  basin  where  the  small  trout  congregate,  and  where 
sometimes  a  larger  one  is  found,  escapes  over  a  bed  of 
clean  gravel  into  the  waters  of  a  lake  lying  among  the 
hills,  and  abounding  in  trout  of  two  varieties.  The  largest 
variety  is  the  lake  trout,  so  called  by  most  sportsmen; 
and  in  this  lake  one  has  been  taken  weighing  a  trifle  over 
thirty  pounds.  The  ordinary  brook  trout  is  also  found 
there  in  plenty ;  but  I  had  never  seen  one  taken  from  the 
lake  which  weighed  over  a  pound  and  three  quarters. 

Before  we  descended  the  slope  to  the  basin  of  the 
brook  Dr.  Johnston  put  his  rod  together,  and  adjusted  a 
cast  of  flies.  The  water  in  the  basin  was  as  clear  as 
crystal,  not  more  than  six  feet  deep,  and  there  was  no 
bush  to  cover  the  approach.  Neither  was  a  long  cast 
practicable  among  the  trees.  It  was  therefore  a  scene 
to  laugh  at  as  the  learned  Doctor  descended  the  slope, 
with  his  head  bowed  down  as  low  as  his  rotundity  of 
body  would  permit,  and  at  length  progressed  on  hands 
and  knees  until  within  a  rod  of  the  edge  of  the  basin. 
Here  he  raised  his  head  cautiously  till  he  could  see  the 
surface  of  the  shining  water,  and,  holding  his  rod  in  the 
right  hand  and  his  line  in  the  left,  bent  the  spring  back, 
and  let  it  fly  off  with  the  line  and  leader  and  flies  in  the 


HE'S    A    WHALE.  69 

air,  then,  with  just  the  most  delicate  twist  of  his  wrist, 
laid  the  flies  on  the  farther  side  of  the  basin,  and  drew 
them  over  the  glassy  water.  A  rise,  a  sharp  strike,  and 
—  it  will  happen  to  the  best  of  anglers,  sometimes — a 
small  chub  had  risen  to  the  fly,  and  the  short  sharp 
stroke  lifted  him  like  a  shot  into  the  air.  He  went  over 
the  Doctor's  head,  and  twenty  feet  behind  him  into  a 
low  pine-bush,  where  the  leader  was  effectually  entan- 
gled. So  the  Doctor  crawled  up  the  slope,  disengaged 
his  leader,  returned  to  the  old  spot,  and  three  times  sent 
his  flies  by  that  graceful  cast  over  the  basin.  Then,  in- 
stead of  lifting  the  line,  he  threw  a  wave  into  it  from  the 
end  of  the  slender  rod,  and  as  the  wave  ran  along  it  lift- 
ed the  flies  and  laid  them  down  again  out  of  his  sight, 
but  under  the  very  edge  of  the  bank  at  the  side  of  the 
brook-fall.  He  did  not,  but  we  from  the  top  of  the  slop- 
ing ground  did,  see  the  magnificent  rise  with  which  the 
tail  fly  was  seized ;  but  he  felt  it,  and  was  on  his  feet  in 
an  instant.  Once  around  the  basin  went  the  sharp  cut 
of  the  line  through  the  water,  and  then  like  lightning  the 
fish  rushed  out  over  the  gravel  into  the  lake.  There  the 
Doctor  saw  him,  as  we  did  not.  "  He's  a  whale,"  I 
heard  him  mutter,  as  he  pressed  his  finger  on  the  line 
that  was  paying  out  with  the  reel  music,  and  all  the  time 
he  was  advancing  step  by  step  toward  the  lake-shore,  but 
never  losing  the  bend  of  his  rod. 

The  length  of  time  required  to  kill  a  trout  on  a  fly-rod 
depends  on  the  size  and  strength  of  the  fish,  and  on  the 
weight  of  the  rod.  The  Doctor  was  handling  a  seven-ounce 
rod,  and  the  fish  was  strong.  He  accepted  a  cigar  which 
I  offered  him,  lit  it,  and  was  patient.  He  had  checked 
the  fish  with  a  hundred  feet  of  line  out;  and  now  the 
plucky  animal  was  swaying  back  and  forth  in  arcs  of  a 


70  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

circle,  refusing  utterly  every  invitation  to  make  the  ra- 
dius shorter. 

"  How  much  does  he  weigh,  Doctor  ?" 

"  Five  pounds,  if  an  ounce,  and  something  more ;  he's 
by  far  the  biggest  and  the  strongest  fish  I  ever  struck  in 
these  waters." 

"Be  patient,  Doctor." 

"Hum." 

"  Take  it  easy,  old  friend.  Don't  get  excited.  Keep 
your  nerves  steady,  and  your  brain — 

"  Shut  up,  will  you,  John  ?" 

"  Can't  you  take  advice  ?  You're  fond  of  giving  it. 
Look  out  there  !  Jove,  what  a  rush  that  was  !" 

And  so  it  was.  The  trout  had  made  a  sudden  dash 
for  deeper  water.  The  Doctor  could  not  spare  twelve 
yards  more  of  line,  and,  as  he  saw  it  going  out,  he  fol- 
lowed his  fish  into  the  lake.  Fortunately  it  shoaled  off 
gradually,  but  he  did  not  turn  the  obstinate  trout  till  he 
stood  in  three  feet  of  water;  and  there  he  stood  for  near- 
ly ten  minutes  while  the  contest  went  on.  Nearer  and 
nearer  to  him  came  the  trout,  then  he  was  off  again ;  then 
nearer  by  a  slow  reeling-in,  then  away  with  a  mad  rush. 
But  at  last  he  gave  up  suddenly,  as  fat  fish  are  apt  to  do ; 
and  the  fisherman,  bringing  him  up  to  his  side,  having 
no  landing-net,  dexterously  passed  his  hand  under  his 
throat,  and,  burying  thumb  and  finger  in  his  gills,  walked 
ashore  with  a  trout  that  weighed  five  pounds  and  seven 
ounces  on  the  scales  at  the  Rookery  when  we  reached 
home. 

This  was  the  largest  trout  that  had  been  killed  in  that 
neighborhood  within  the  memory  of  man.  And  the 
brook  trout  is  not  found  in  many  localities  as  large.  In 
Maine  I  have  seen  many  brook  trout  weighing  over  eight 


HOBBIES.  71 

pounds  each,  and  have  evidence,  satisfactory  to  me,  that 
at  least  two  trout,  the  veritable  Salmo  fontinalis,  our 
speckled  brook  trout,  were  killed  in  Rangely  Lake  weigh- 
ing a  trifle  over  eleven  pounds  each.  This  was  years 
ago,  when  I  first  knew  those  waters,  before  these  times 
in  which  they  are  more  thoroughly  fished ;  but  at  the 
present  day  it  is  not  uncommon  to  take  them  in  Moose- 
tockmaguntic  and  Rangely  lakes  running  over  seven 
pounds. 

Always  when  the  Doctor  has  killed  a  large  fish  he  be- 
comes talkative,  but  not  as  in  town,  where  he  is  apt,  if 
excited,  to  be  intolerant  and  abusive.  One  may  as  well 
use  plain  words  and  speak  truth,  and  1  do  it  though  he  be 
in  a  rage  when  he  reads  what  I  have  written.  It  would 
seem  as  if  piscatorial  success  mollified  the  inner  man  and 
toned  down  the  more  objectionable  characteristics.  We 
all  know  that  anglers  love  to  talk,  and  to  talk  of  their 
several  special  hobbies,  whatever  they  may  be.  Hence 
it  occurs  that  parties  going  a-fishing  together  find  no  lack 
of  subjects  of  conversation,  and  there  is  no  subject  in  the 
world  which  does  not  properly  and  naturally  belong  to 
trout -fishing  as  one  of  its  accompaniments.  I  have  a 
friend  who  is  given  to  paleontological  studies  when  in 
his  own  library,  and  who,  when  we  are  fishing  together, 
talks  steadfastly  from  morning  till  night,  and  oftener  from 
night  till  morning,  about  fossils  and  formations  that  are 
utterly  unintelligible  to  me.  But  do  I  stop  him  ?  Not  at 
all.  An  angler  would  no  more  think  of  stopping  his 
friend's  trotting  on  a  hobby  than  he  would  of  stopping 
the  noise  of  a  brook  that  he  was  fishing.  For  what  one 
of  us  may  not  find  the  time  when  he  wants  a  passive,  con- 
tented listener?  It's  a  luxury  to  have  a  human  ear  to 
talk  into,  even  if  all  you  say  goes  out  at  the  ear  opposite. 


72  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

An  angler  talks  sometimes  as  he  casts ;  right  along, 
steadily,  perseveringly  ;  without  a  rise,  without,  after  a 
little,  even  expecting  a  rise.  That  being  a  custom  of  the 
guild,  it  would  be  out  of  place  and  character  to  stop  the 
talking  of  a  fellow-angler. 

As  we  rode  home  the  Doctor  talked  with  great  satis- 
faction, and,  as  anglers  are  apt  to  do,  rode  his  favor- 
ite hobby,  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  trout-fishing. 
Philip  had  received  a  package  of  old  books  from  Leipsic 
a  few  days  before,  and  among  them  were  some  of  the 
Basle  editions  of  the  works  of  Erasmus — those  beautiful 
editions  which  Froben  ornamented  with  borders  by  Urse 
Graff,  and  initial  letters  which  are  attributed  by  some  to 
Holbein.  The  Doctor  is  not  a  collector  of  books  him- 
self, but  is  something  of  a  Dibdin,  enjoying  the  libraries 
of  his  friends,  and  it  is  not  saying  much  to  affirm  that  he 
knows  more  about  old  books  and  old  editions  than  Mr. 
Dibdin  ever  knew.  So  he  began  to  discuss  with  Philip  a 
question  in  which  he  is  interested,  and  no  one  else  in 
America  can  possibly  be  interested,  as  to  what  was  the 
first  book  which  Erasmus  ever  published.  Now  this  hap- 
pened, without  being  directly  in  my  line,  to  be  a  point  on 
which  I  fancied  I  could  throw  a  little  light,  and  as  they 
dismounted  at  the  door,  and  I  heard  the  Doctor  affirm, 
"  I  tell  you,  the  edition  of  his  friend  Hermann's  poems  is 
the  first  thing  he  ever  put  to  press,"  I  put  in  a  word — 

"  That's  Mercator's  edition  of  1497,  isn't  it,  Doctor?" 

"  Yes,  it  is"  (very  gruffly). 

"  Well,  Erasmus  published  poems  of  his  own  before 
that." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  it  ?  Stick  to  your  old  wood- 
cuts, and  don't  bother  about  editions." 

"  But  I've  got  the  book." 


ERASMUS.  73 

"  With  wood-cuts  ?" 

"  With  only  one,  the  large  printer's  mark  of  Denidel." 

"  What's  the  date  ?" 

"No  date." 

"  What's  the  poetry  ?" 

By  this  time  we  were  in  the  library,  and  before  I  an- 
swered I  hunted  up  a  memorandum  I  had  given  Philip 
when  I  first  noticed  the  book  in  my  own  library,  and  read 
it  to  the  Doctor  :  "  De  casa  Natalitia  Jesu  et  paupere 
puerperio  sive  virginis  Marie  Carmen  noviter  emenclatum. 
Title-page  has  Denidel's  book-mark  ;  follow  two  pages  of 
a  letter  of  Erasmus  to  Boethius,  dated  at  end,  Scriptum 
ruri  tumultuarie  sexto  Idus  novembres;  nineteen  pages 
of  seven  different  short  poems  by  Erasmus  ;  and  at  the  end 
a  statement  that  this  is  a  corrected  edition,  the  former  hav- 
ing contained  errors.  This  occurs  in  the  colophon:  'Au- 
tor  et  impressor  presentis  codicis  almi  sistantur  rutilo 
post  sua  fata  polo.'  "  "  Now,  Doctor,  if  you  can  find  any 
account  of  that  book  in  any  bibliography,  or  any  life  of 
Erasmus,  let  me  know  about  it,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  will.     Does  Ehrard  mention  it  ?" 

"  No.  But  the  whole  science  of  bibliography  is  in  its 
infancy.  Men  copy  one  another  instead  of  making  per- 
sonal examinations.  It's  astonishing  how  much  history 
is  a  repetition  of  old  stories  that  never  had  any  authority." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  bibliography  ?  You  talk  as 
if  you  were  a  dealer  in  old  books.  You  have  a  few  lots 
of  old  wood-cut  illustrations,  well  enough  in  their  way,  but 
you  are  lamentably  ignorant  of  old  books.  The  science 
of  bibliography  is  more  nearly  a  complete  science  than 
any  I  know  of.  It  is  true  there  is  no  one  work  that  will 
answer  all  your  purposes,  but — 

"  No,  nor  any  ten  works.     But  let  that  pass.     John  has 


74  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

here  a  good  copy  of  the  Frankfort  edition  of  your  friend 
Pirkheimer.  What  a  wretch  the  old  fellow  was !" 

"There  you  are  again.  Now,  what  have  you  read  of 
his  works.  What  reason  have  you  for  abusing  a  learned 
man  like  that,  the  friend  of  the  great  Reformers,  the  patron 
of  art?  You  know  no  more  about  Pirkheimer  than  you 
know  of  trout-fishing." 

"I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Doctor.  I  didn't  think  you 
would  be  guilty  of  defending  a  notorious  libertine,  an  in- 
flated egotist,  one  who  sought  notoriety  by  attaching  him- 
self to  great  men,  and  patronized  art  not  for  the  art's  sake, 
but  for  the  sake  of  being  a  patron." 

"  Why,  Effendi,"  said  Philip,  "  what's  the  matter  ?  Did 
Bilibald  ever  insult  you  ?  Where  did  you  meet  him  to 
get  in  such  a  rage  with  him  ?" 

"  I  meet  him  in  my  own  library  every  day,  for  whenever 
I  look  at  one  of  Diirer's  Madonnas  or  pictures  of  the 
Virgin  in  any  scene  of  her  life,  I  wonder  if  the  face  of  his 
wife  Agnes  is  there,  and,  while  looking  for  it,  I  am  always 
sure  to  see  the  brutal  physiognomy  of  Bilibald  Pirkheimer, 
who  has  outraged  Diirer  and  vilified  poor  Agnes  by  mak- 
ing her  famous  for  all  time  as  a  vixen,  when  I  have  no 
manner  of  doubt  she  was  a  pure,  gentle,  and  lovely 
woman." 

"  I  thought  every  one  had  agreed  about  Agnes  Diirer. 
I'm  sure  one  meets  only  one  story  about  her  in  all  the 
books." 

"  Yes ;  and,  as  I  said  just  now,  history  is  a  repetition 
of  old  stories,  and  in  this  case  it  is  a  repetition  of  one 
old  falsehood  told  by  the  lying  pen  of  Pirkheimer. 

"  No  woman  has  been  more  vilified  in  history  than  Ag- 
nes Diirer,  and  none  more  wrongfully.  She  may  have 
been  worse  than  she  is  represented  ;  but  until  we  have  a 


AGNES    DURER.  75 

better  witness  against  her  than  Bilibald  Pirkheimer,  she 
should  be  regarded  as  a  loved  and  lovely  woman.  It  is 
strange  that  so  many  admirers  of  the  great  master  who 
have  written  concerning  his  life  should  have  been  content 
to  follow  this  old  story,  told  by  a  man  notoriously  unfit  to 
express  an  opinion  about  a  virtuous  woman,  and  do  not 
seem  ever  to  have  entertained  a  notion  that  his  accusa- 
tions were  unworthy  credit.  If  he  were  otherwise  cred- 
ible, it  would  tell  much  against  him  that  he  should  volun- 
teer to  a  stranger  a  sharp  tirade  against  the  character  of 
a  woman  with  whom  he  confesses  his  relations  have  been 
always  unfriendly.  What  business  had  this  fat  egotist  to 
write  such  a  letter  about  a  woman  at  all  ?  If  he  would  be 
guilty  of  such  a  letter  about  the  wife  of  his  friend,  I  can 
well  believe  that  he  would  not  stop  at  falsehood. 

"  Let  us  gather  all  the  testimony  which  exists  on  the 
subject  of  Agnes  Diirer's  character,  and  we  shall  find  that 
Bilibald  Pirkheimer  is  the  solitary  witness  against  her. 
Upon  analyzing  his  evidence,  we  find  this  to  be  the  state 
of  facts.  After  Diirer  was  dead,  Pirkheimer  had  occa- 
sion to  write  a  long  letter  to  one  Tcherte,  in  Vienna,  and, 
alluding  to  Diirer's  death  and  his  own  relations  to  him, 
he  breaks  out  into  a  tirade  against  Diirer's  widow.  He 
says,  in  substance,  that  she  had  always  regarded  him  as 
her  enemy,  and  that  since  Diirer's  death  she  would  not 
see  him  nor  have  any  thing  to  do  with  him  ;  he  ascribes 
Diirer's  death  to  her,  says  that  she  worried  him  always, 
and  the  specific  effect  which  he  charges  her  with  produ- 
cing was  that  Diirer  was  dried  up,  and  did  not  dare  to  go 
into  society  or  indulge  in  gayety;  he  had  often  expost- 
ulated with  her,  and  told  her  that  she  would  kill  her  hus- 
band by  keeping  him  so  closely  at  work;  but  he  only 
met  with  her  ingratitude  ;  for  whoever  was  a  friend  of  her 


76  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

husband's  she  regarded  as  her  enemy.  In  this  same  let- 
ter he  complains  that  Agnes  had  disposed  of  a  pair  of 
stag's  antlers,  and  many  other  fine  things  of  Diirer's,  which 
he  had  wanted,  but  she  sold  them  for  a  mere  trifle,  and 
did  not  let  him  know. 

"  Here  comes  in  a  suspicion.  If  Agnes  loved  money 
so  much,  why  throw  away  these  fine  things  ?  And,  again, 
what  is  Pirkheimer's  motive  in  writing  all  this  tirade  about 
his  friend's  wife  and  himself  to  a  stranger  ?  for  Tcherte 
appears  by  this  very  letter  to  be  a  new  correspondent,  not 
an  old  friend.  Above  all,  who  was  this  Pirkheimer,  and 
what  his  character,  that  we  may  weigh  his  testimony 
against  a  woman,  a  widow,  and  the  widow  of  his  friend  ? 
In  this  same  letter  he  tells  Tcherte  that  she  and  her  sis- 
ter are  pious  and  honorable  women,  but  that  he  would 
prefer  to  have  business  with  a  loose  woman  rather  than 
with  such  a  scolding,  fault-finding,  pious  woman.  Now 
Pirkheimer,  as  we  know  from  abundant  evidence,  had 
much  familiarity  with  loose  women.  Beyond  dispute,  he 
was  a  fat,  sensual  man,  given  to  free  life,  denying  himself 
nothing  on  the  score  of  morality,  and  both  in  his  corres- 
pondence and  his  intercourse  with  Diirer  seeking  to  make 
him  the  confidant  of  his  adventures,  and  receiving  always 
admonitions  in  return,  given  sometimes  sharply  and  some- 
times in  ridicule.  His  character  was  such  that  we  are 
fully  justified  in  regarding  him  as  unfit  to  express  an 
opinion  in  regard  to  a  pure  woman.  We  will  take  his  tes- 
timony, therefore,  only  for  what  it  is  worth,  and  out  of  his 
own  story  of  his  relations  to  Agnes  Diirer  construct  a  his- 
tory which  seems  far  more  likely  to  be  the  true  one  than 
this  which  has  generally  been  accepted  from  his  tirade. 

"  Diirer  and  Pirkheimer  were  friends  in  boyhood.  The 
latter  was  rich,  and  of  high  rank  in  the  old  city  ;  the  for- 


AGNES    DURER.  77 

mer  was  poor,  the  son  of  an  honest  goldsmith,  who  had 
counted  no  less  than  eighteen  children  in  his  family,  most 
of  whom,  indeed,  had  died  in  very  early  life.  As  they 
grew  up,  the  friendship  continued  ;  but  while  the  artist 
was  driven  to  hard  work  for  his  bread,  the  rich  man  de- 
voted his  life  to  luxury.  Diirer  married  a  young  girl  of 
good  family  and  of  great  beauty.  He  needed  just  such  a 
wife  as  she  proved.  Her  influence  on  his  life  was  all  for 
good.  Pirkheimer  grew  to  be  a  dissolute  man,  and  Diirer 
had  hard  work  to  resist  his  constant  desire  to  carry  him 
off  from  his  wife  and  his  studio  to  join  in  '  gayety.'  Then 
commenced  the  differences  between  the  artist's  wife  and 
his  friend.  We  can  plainly  see  what  he  means  when  he 
writes  Tcherte  that  she  prevented  Albert  from  going  into 
society  or  indulging  in  gayety.  The  sort  of  society  and 
gayety  which  Pirkheimer  desired  him  to  enjoy  is  abun- 
dantly evident  from  his  correspondence  when  the  artist 
was  in  Venice.  The  young  wife  had  a  more  powerful  in- 
fluence on  the  artist  than  his  old  friend  and  all  his  allur- 
ing temptations.  The  result  which  came  about  is  just 
what  we  often  see  in  modern  life.  The  friend  of  the  man 
takes  a  strong  dislike  to  the  woman  who  wins  the  greater 
influence,  and  the  woman  can  never  forgive  the  man  who 
wishes  to  draw  her  husband  from  her  to  low  and  vile  asso- 
ciations." 

THE  DOCTOR.  "There  is  a  story  that  Agnes  used  to 
sit  above  her  husband's  working-room,  and  keep  him  at 
his  work  by  speaking  through  a  hole  in  the  ceiling." 

"  Yes  ;  and  it  has  no  other  foundation  than  this,  that 
some  one  who  had  taken  Pirkheimer's  evidence  against 
Agnes  imagined  this  absurd  story.  If  such  a  hole  there 
was,  I  have  little  doubt  that  sometimes,  when  Albert  was 
bored  to  the  last  extreme  by  such  lazy  loungers  as  Pirk- 


78  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

heimer,  stupid  from  last  night's  excesses,  and  not  able  to 
see  that  his  friend  wanted  to  be  at  work,  Agnes  would 
come  to  his  help  by  calling  out, '  Albrecht,  are  you  alone? 
I  am  coming  down  to  see  you.'  I  would  take  my  affida- 
vit that  through  that  hole  in  the  ceiling  a  thousand  kind 
words  went  up  and  down,  and  never  one  either  way  that 
was  not  loving. 

"Dismiss  Pirkheimer  and  his  libels  from  our  minds, 
and  we  may  construct  for  Diirer  a  home  full  of  all  that 
was  beautiful  and  lovely.  He  had  his  mother,  and  it  was 
the  delight  of  his  life  to  care  for  her  in  the  lonesome 
years  of  coming  age ;  his  young  brother,  whom  he  watched 
and  guided  with  tender  anxiety ;  above  all,  his  gentle, 
beautiful,  and  faithful  wife,  whose  face  is  the  Madonna 
that  he  best  liked  of  all  his  works,  always  with  him,  al- 
ways enjoying  with  him  those  wonderful  conceptions  of 
the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the  unseen  world,  those  ex- 
quisite home  ideas  of  the  life  of  the  Virgin  mother  of  the 
Lord,  sharing  constantly  his  every  thought  of  earth  and 
heaven. 

"  But  I  am  not  disposed  to  deal  with  imaginations 
now.  I  prefer  a  plain  discussion  of  known  facts.  There 
is  a  great  error,  and  succession  of  errors,  in  which  writers 
have  followed  one  another  like  a  flock  of  sheep,  concern- 
ing Diirer's  letters  to  Pirkheimer  written  from  Venice  in 
1506.  The  first  mistake  is  made  in  regarding  it  as  strange 
that  he  so  seldom  mentions  his  wife,  and  that  his  few  mes- 
sages to  her  are  so  cold.  Enough,  in  reply  to  this,  that 
he  knew  his  wife's  opinion  of  Pirkheimer,  and  their  estab- 
lished dislike,  and  he  therefore  exercised  discretion  and 
judgment  in  his  correspondence.  Still  more,  he  knew 
Pirkheimer,  and  had  no  desire  to  talk  to  him  about  one 
so  pure  as  Agnes. 


AGNES    DURER. 


79 


"  In  substance,  he  is  to  be  understood  as  saying,  '  You 
and  I  are  friends,  but  let  my  wife  alone.'  Curious  blun- 
ders are  made  by  all  translators  of  the  queer  old  Bavarian 
dialect  in  which  he  writes.  One  serious  blunder  occurs 
in  the  latest  English  book — a  very  good  book,  too — Mrs. 
Heaton's — where  the  meaning  of  a  sentence  is  wholly 
changed.  Pirkheimer  had  spoken  in  his  coarse  way  of 
many  persons  and  things,  and,  among  others,  had  for  once 
ventured  to  speak  of  the  artist's  wife.  His  remark  was, 
in  effect,  that  if  Durer  did  not  hasten  home, '  I  will  make 
love  to  your  wife.'  The  word  which  I  translate  '  make 
love'  is  capable  of  several  translations,  conveying  a  coarse 
idea,  or  a  more  common  signification — tease,  annoy,  tor- 
ment. Diirer's  reply  is  short,  sharp,  and  distinct,  but 
strangely  mistranslated  by  Mrs.  Heaton,  by  Scott,  and  by 
others.  He  does  not  say, '  You  may  keep  her  till  death.' 
He  never  wrote  such  a  brutal  sentence.  But  he  replies, 
simply,  'This  is  wrong;  you  will  bring  her  to  her  death.' 
The  only  meaning  properly  to  be  extracted  from  this  is  a 
reproof  as  sharp  as  he  could  use  to  his  creditor,  to  whom 
he  was  then  under  heavy  obligations,  and  unable  to  pay. 
Neither  is  Agnes  the  '  reckon-mistress '  named  in  these 
letters.  On  the  contrary,  coupled  as  this  '  reckon-mis- 
tress' is  with  women  of  loose  character  of  Pirkheimer's 
acquaintance,  she  is  clearly  one  of  them,  and  no  one 
should  have  dreamed  that  Durer  joined  his  wife  and  such 
persons  in  one  sentence. 

"  Her  reputation  as  a  saving  person  is  to  her  credit, 
since  we  have  abundant  evidence  that  she  was  not  nig- 
gardly, Pirkheimer  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding;  for 
she  never  seems  to  have  restrained  Durer  in  his  free  pur- 
chases of  curiosities  and  objects  of  taste  in  art,  and  the 
furniture  of  their  home  was  luxurious  and  elegant  for  the 


8o  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

period.  Many  a  money-lender  has  found  an  artist's  wife 
much  more  careful  to  compel  exact  and  honest  dealing 
than  the  free  and  careless  artist,  and  has  thence  taken 
deep  offense. 

"  We  know  so  little  of  Diirer's  private  life,  have  such 
very  brief  extracts  from  his  journals  and  correspondence, 
and  possess  so  little  on  which  to  construct  his  home  life, 
that  every  one  seems  to  have  seized  on  Pirkheimer's  let- 
ter to  Tcherte,  and  thereon  founded  the  current  theory 
about  Agnes,  interpreting  every  possible  suggestion  by 
this  false  light. 

"We  know  absolutely  nothing  about  the  family  life  in 
the  old  Nuremberg  house,  save  only  that  Diirer  lived  at 
home  and  found  his  pleasures  there.  And  from  that  old 
home  at  length  Diirer  "emigravit,"  as  saith  the  record 
on  his  tomb — went  away  to  another  and  fairer  country, 
where  many  of  his  dreams  became  realities  of  glory.  No 
record  is  left  us  of  the  later  hours  of  his  life,  in  the  gloom 
that  was  settling  in  the  artist's  chamber.  We  may  be- 
lieve, if  this  miserable  libeler,  Pirkheimer,  can  be  kept  si- 
lent while  we  imagine  the  scene,  that  those  last  hours 
were  full  of  tender  and  holy  conversation,  not  unminglecl 
with  lockings  forward  to  a  reunion.  It  was  doubtless 
agreed  that  they  two  would  rest  together  until  the  resur- 
rection, for  he  was  laid  in  her  father's  tomb. 

"  Then  she  was  left  to  the  world  and  her  memories  of 
the  man  who,  more  than  all  other  men,  had  taught  Ger- 
many to  love  the  beautiful,  and  filled  it  with  that  exceed- 
ing splendor  of  light  which  to  this  day  characterizes  Ger- 
man art. 

"  As  soon  as  they  had  laid  the  artist  in  the  grave,  Pirk- 
heimer sought  to  possess  himself  of  the  treasures  of  art 
with  which  he  had  been  surrounded.  Thev  were  manv 


AGNES    DURER.  8  I 

and  valuable.  The  incident  of  the  stag's  horns  is  but 
one.  There  were  other  beautiful  things,  as  we  know, 
and  as  Pirkheimer  says  to  Tcherte,  and  Agnes  did  not 
let  him  have  them.  Why  should  she?  He  had  always 
been  her  traducer,  had  long  sought  in  vain  to  sow  dis- 
cord between  her  and  her  husband,  and  she  had  good 
right  to  have  done  with  him  thenceforth  forever.  Doubt- 
less she  very  plainly  gave  him  so  to  understand,  and  dis- 
tributed the  memorials  of  the  artist  among  those  who 
could  share  with  her  the  memories  of  an  affection  that 
had  always  been  offensive  to  the  man  who  had  so  much 
and  so  long  vilified  her.  Then  the  ire  of  the  fat  patri- 
cian arose,  and  he  went  storming  around  Nuremberg, 
telling  all  men  that  if  Diirer  had  only  drank  more  wine, 
and  eaten  more  suppers,  and  lived  a  gayer  life  with  him, 
he  would  have  lived  longer.  And  this  being  his  promi- 
nent sensation  at  the  time,  he  can  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion to  put  it  in  a  letter  to  Tcherte,  a  stranger  to  whom 
he  had  occasion  to  write ;  and  the  letter  survives  to  dark- 
en the  memory  of  Agnes.  Thus  the  evil  that  this  man 
did  lives  after  him." 

F 


V. 

SUNDAY  MORNING  AND  EVENING. 

"  AND  is  it  all  over  ?" 

"  All  over,  Philip.  The  freshness  of  youth,  the  strength 
of  manhood,  the  wisdom  of  maturity,  the  feebleness  of 
age — all  are  over;  and  in  their  place  has  come  a  calm,  a 
repose,  so  deep,  so  profound,  that,  to  look  on  the  old  man 
as  he  lies  there  this  morning,  you  would  not  think  he 
could  be  roused  by  the  trumpet  of  the  angel." 

"  And  how  died  he  ?" 

"  As  the  good  man  always  dies.  He  called  his  family 
about  him  at  the  gray  dawn  of  the  Sabbath  morning;  and 
they  came,  some  from  tearful  watching,  some  from  deep 
slumber  after  last  night's  tears;  and  he  spoke  to  them 
words  of  sublime  and  holy  import;  and  when  his  voice 
grew  feeble,  he  looked  at  them,  and  they  said  his  face  was 
radiant  with  the  light  he  saw  but  they  saw  not,  only  as 
thus  reflected  ;  and  at  length,  as  the  first  sun  rays  came 
across  the  hill  and  through  his  window,  and  lit  the  room 
with  Sabbath  lustre,  he  murmured,  with  broken  voice  but 
not  unmusical, 

'  Oh  happy  harbor  of  God's  saints,' 
and  then  died." 

"  What,  said  nothing  after  that  ?" 

"  Nothing,  but  he  looked  steadfastly  into  heaven,  as  if 
he  saw  Stephen's  vision ;  and  his  white  hand  beat  time  to 


SUNDAY    MORNING.  83 

some  unheard  music  long  after  he  had  ceased  to  sing. 
Jessie  asked  me,  in  her  simple  way,  if  I  did  not  think  he 
was  listening  to  the  angels  singing ;  and  I  smiled  at  her 
idea,  but  told  her  I  thought  they  did  not  measure  their 
songs  by  time  in  the  choir  that  he  was  then  ready  to  join." 

It  was  Sunday  morning.  I  had  but  just  roused  myself 
from  long  and  profound  sleep,  and,  turning  to  the  window 
near  my  bed,  had  reached  out  my  hand  to  throw  back  the 
curtain,  when  I  heard  the  conversation  which  I  have  given. 
It  was  between  Philip  and  the  Doctor.  The  Doctor  was 
on  horseback,  having  returned  from  an  early  ride  over  to 
the  farm-house  before  mentioned,  and  the  fact  that  the 
good  old  farmer  had  gone  to  broader  and  greener  fields 
than  these  was  thus  communicated  to  me. 

It  somewhat  solemnized  me  that  while  I  rested  so 
calmly  on  this  side  of  the  hill  he  should  have  gone  from 
the  other ;  that  if  the  old  man  could  have  looked  back  as 
he  went  away,  he  would  have  seen  his  neighbors  sleeping, 
forgetful  of  him,  while  he  was  going  through  such  a  won- 
drous change. 

I  dressed  slowly  and  came  down  to  breakfast,  which 
was  now  ready,  and  with  which  we  were  admonished  to 
hasten,  as  we  must  soon  start  for  church  over  on  the  hill. 

After  a  breakfast  which  was  unusually  still,  even  for 
Sunday  morning,  the  horses  were  at  the  door  before  the 
long  wagon,  and  we  all  went  to  the  church  together  in  the 
good  old  country  fashion. 

The  wagon  had  a  spring  box,  and  the  seats  were  cush- 
ioned, only  the  back  one  had  a  buffalo  robe  thrown  over 
it,  and  six  persons,  two  on  a  seat,  rode  comfortably  and 
pleasantly  in  it. 

The  Doctor  and  myself  had  the  back  seat.  Philip  and 
John  had  the  middle  seat,  and  Sam  drove  with  Simon 


04  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

(the  blackest  and  best  of  negroes)  on  the  seat  beside 
him. 

It  was  six  miles  to  the  church,  up  hill  and  down,  yet 
mostly  by  a  shaded  road  through  forests.  The  horses 
jogged  on  slowly,  for  they  are  never  hurried  on  a  Sunday. 
We  came  up  the  hill  toward  the  cross  roads,  where  the 
old  church  stands,  and  as  we  approached,  other  wagons 
very  like  ours  were  coming  in  from  all  directions.  Driv- 
ing up  to  the  church  door  they  deposited  their  loads,  and 
the  men  took  them  to  the  shed,  or  to  the  grove  of  trees 
back  of  the  church,  and  made  the  horses  fast,  to  await  the 
close  of  morning  service. 

We  dismounted  at  the  stone  step,  and  entered  the  gate 
in  front  of  the  church  together,  walking  through  a  crowd 
of  men  who  congregate  at  the  door,  and  wait  the  close  of 
the  first  prayer  before  they  enter.  The  custom  is  hea- 
thenish, but  is  as  reverently  observed  as  is  the  going  to 
church  at  all;  and  no  preaching  or  lecturing  avails  to 
make  them  come  in  and  take  their  seats  before  the  serv- 
ice commences. 

This  assembly  is  the  weekly  interchange  of  news ;  and 
the  crops,  weather,  and  general  prospects  of  the  season 
are  freely  discussed  at  the  church  door.  This  morning 
the  death  of  the  old  farmer  was  the  chief  topic  of  conver- 
sation, and  a  gloom  fell  on  all,  for  all  loved  him.  It 
seemed  as  if  death  had  come  into  a  family,  so  deep  was 
the  feeling  manifested  by  those  who  now  first  heard  the 
news.  And  in  the  church  I  saw  many  old  persons  weep- 
ing all  the  morning;  and  why  should  they  not  weep? 
For  he  was  eighty-three  years  their  companion  and  friend, 
and  if  eighty  years  of  living  together  in  the  same  world, 
the  same  county,  the  same  congregation ;  if  eighty  years 
of  worship  together  in  the  same  church,  at  the  same  altar, 


A   COUNTRY   CHURCH.  85 

be  not  enough  to  make  people  love  one  another,  I  am 
afraid  that  an  eternity  in  the  same  heaven  would  not  suf- 
fice. 

Blessings  on  the  warm  country  heart.  There  were  tears 
shed  that  morning  in  the  old  church  that  honored  the  eyes 
that  shed  them ;  and  the  pastor  himself  spoke  with  broken 
voice  and  imperfect  utterance  when  he  told  them  that  on 
Tuesday  afternoon 'the  old  man  would  be  brought  once 
again,  and  for  the  last  time,  into  the  church,  and  then  car- 
ried out  to  sleep  with  the  dead  of  the  country  in  the  old 
hill-side  grave-yard. 

The  service  was  simple  and  beautiful.  The  first  prayer 
was  but  an  invocation  of  blessing,  and  after  it  followed 
the  stampede  into  the  galleries  and  side  aisles  of  the  men 
and  boys  who  had  congregated  at  the  door. 

Then  followed  a  psalm.  If  you  have  read  "The  Old 
House  by  the  River,"  you  will  understand  me  when  I 
speak  of  the  emotion  which  I  feel  in  a  country  church  on 
a  calm  Sabbath  morning.  The  sound  of  that  psalm  going 
up  peacefully  to  God  from  the  little  church ;  the  voices  of 
the  old  men,  broken  but  pleasant,  joining  in  the  song  of 
praise ;  the  pleasant  voices  (out  of  time  and  out  of  tune, 
but  in  unison  of  heart)  of  the  old  ladies,  here  and  there 
about  the  church;  the  occasional  high  note  of  an  unprac- 
ticed  child ;  the  clear,  rich  melody  of  a  bird-like  voice  that 
is  always  heard  somewhere  in  every  country  congregation 
— all  these  sounds  are  so  familiar  and  so  holy  to  us,  that 
there  are  few  places  on  earth  so  near  to  heaven  as  a  seat 
in  a  country  church  on  such  a  morning. 

They  sang  rudely  the  psalms  of  the  Scottish  Church, 
but,  rude  though  they  are  and  rudely  sung,  they  neverthe- 
less have  about  them  forever  the  sanctity  which  the  lips 
of  martyrs  gave  them.  They  were  sung  when  the  foam 


86  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

of  the  inflowing  tide  bubbled  over  the  lips  that  gave  them 
utterance,  when  the  flames  of  the  chariots  of  fire  made 
them  more  audible  in  heaven  than  on  earth,  when  their 
broken  syllables  scarce  prevailed  to  overcome  the  sobs 
and  moans  of  earthly  agony — syllables  that  were  heard 
yonder,  though  the  moans  were  loudest  here.  Yea,  they 
are  sanctified  by  notes  of  triumph  that  have  been  answered 
by  notes  of  angelic  welcome. 

There  was  nothing  noteworthy  in  the  sermon.  The 
clergyman  preached  specially  to  young  children,  from  the 
text  "  Children,  obey  your  parents,"  and  I  derived  some 
good  from  it,  though  I  scarcely  took  into  my  wandering 
brain  one  sentence  of  the  whole.  The  good  came  in  this 
wise.  In  the  front  pew,  directly  under  the  pulpit,  sat  a 
small  boy,  alone  in  one  end  of  the  pew,  and  he  received 
the  short,  terse  sentences  of  the  minister  as  if  each  were 
a  musket-ball.  You  could  see  him  start  back  at  each, 
and  then  he  looked  up  wistfully  once  in  a  while  and  fixed 
his  clear  eyes  on  the  wall  above  the  pulpit,  and  seemed 
to  brace  himself  for  the  next  shot,  but  when  it  came  it  al- 
ways took  him  down  with  unerring  force,  and  he  shrank 
into  his  corner  again.  That  front  pew  was  a  magic  mir- 
ror wherein  was  visible  a  scene  of  far-away  years.  Longer 
ago  than  even  the  gray  hairs  in  my  beard  would  seem  to 
indicate  I  saw  a  boy  seated  just  so,  and  listening  to  a  ser- 
mon in  the  old  meeting-house ;  and  the  text  was  "  Train 
up  a  child  in  the  way  he  should  go."  Subtle  and  inex- 
plicable power  of  memory  that  should  bring  back  out  of 
the  grave  of  years  such  an  incident,  long  forgotten,  yet 
now  clear  as  the  sunshine  in  the  middle  aisle.  At  once 
when  the  vision  came  the  present  vanished  out  of  mind. 
We  were  no  longer  men  in  the  hill-side  church,  but  we 
were  boys  in  a  distant  village,  and  the  dead  were  living. 


A    VISION.  87 

and  the  living  now  were  unborn,  and  the  sad  flood  of 
time  had  all  swept  back  and  left  the  flowers  and  fields  as 
in  the  long-gone  days.  In  the  pulpit  stood  the  pastor  of 
those  days,  in  the  pews  sat  the  congregation  of  those  days, 
in  the  corner  pew  sat  the  blue-eyed  children  of  the  elder, 
and  across  the  aisle  the  black-haired  boys  of  the  other 
elder,  and — and — and — what  was  that  fairest  of  visions 
that  beamed  on  me  in  the  clear  sunlight  by  the  south  win- 
dow? What  mighty  power  called  out  of  dust  that  form 
like  the  form  of  the  Madonna,  that  face  like  the  face  of 
an  angel  ? 

As  I  write  this  to-night  in  my  library  in  New  York,  I 
look  around  me  and  seek  in  vain  one  connecting  link 
between  the  present  and  the  past.  Not  even  the  por- 
traits on  the  wall  take  me  to  those  scenes,  for  portraits 
grow  to  be  inhabitants  themselves,  and  do  not  seem  like- 
nesses of  men  and  women  that  lived  in  other  places. 
Sometimes  from  the  face  of  one  or  the  other  of  the  Ma- 
donnas I  catch  a  dreamy  hint  of  the  beautiful  of  the  old 
times,  and  oftener  perhaps  the  Flora,  who  carries  her  load 
of  flowers  over  yonder,  looks  at  me  with  a  sharp,  quick 
look,  and  seems  to  say,  "  Yes,  I  am  she  " — but  who  she  is 
I  know  not. 

Over  there  where  the  sunlight  came  in  she  sat  in  her 
purity,  and  the  golden  hair  was  brighter  than  the  sunlight 
on  her  white  shoulder.  She  listened,  and  yet  did  not 
listen,  for  she  had  always  an  absent  look  about  her  face, 
so  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  talking  with  those  unseen 
to  others.  And  doubtless  so  she  was  on  that  Sunday  aft- 
ernoon. And  the  boy  of  whom  I  spoke  looked  at  her, 
and  he  forgot  the  thunder  of  the  pulpit,  and,  climbing  on 
the  seat,  put  his  head  through  a  broken  place  in  the  rail 
that  surrounded  it  (the  old  square  pew  with  rail  and  cur- 


I    GO   A- FISHING. 

tains),  so  he  might  look  more  clearly  into  the  perfect 
beauty  of  that  child's  face.  I  always  did  maintain  and 
will  maintain,  though  it  was  in  church,  and  a  church  of 
the  strictest  Scotch  persuasion  too,  that  the  boy  was  wise 
in  the  pursuit  of  study,  wiser,  indeed,  in  studying  that  fair 
face  than  in  listening  to  what  he  could  not  comprehend. 
The  sermon  was  to  his  parents,  and  he  was  to  receive  its 
beneficial  effects  at  second-hand.  Meantime  he  sought 
the  fairest  and  most  perfect  work  of  the  Maker's  hands 
in  all  the  circle  of  his  vision,  and  by  experience  knew 
where  to  look  for  it.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  his  ears 
went  through  the  rail  easily,  but  would  not  let  his  head 
come  back,  and  that  the  congregation  saw  his  situation, 
and  the  young  ones  first  and  then  the  old  ones  began  to 
smile,  and  the  smile  became  a  laugh,  and  the  end  of  it 
was  that  the  minister  stopped  till  he  was  rescued. 

But  all  the  time  there  was  no  smile  on  that  one  face 
at  which  he  had  been  looking,  only  a  sad,  anxious  ex- 
pression, which,  for  the  instant,  took  the  place  of  the  or- 
dinary peaceful  look  which  rested  on  it.  And  then  the 
sermon  went  on,  and  the  singing  followed,  and  the  bene- 
diction after  the  singing,  and  he  found  her  at  the  church 
door,  and  the  two  walked  homeward  hand  in  hand,  and 
said  nothing  of  the  accident,  for  both  had  forgotten  it. 
Happy  forgetfulness  of  five  years'  old  !  Happy  memo- 
ries of  half  a  century  ! 

She  was  older  than  I  by  just  five  years,  and  very  soon, 
as  the  time  now  seems  to  me,  but  long,  long  after  that, 
as  it  then  seemed,  Katie  Stuart  was  a  maiden  of  exceed- 
ing beauty,  the  pride  of  all  the  country.  My  friend,  Dr. 
Johnston,  was  a  boy  of  that  congregation,  her  cousin,  and 
of  just  her  age. 

"  Doctor,"  said  I,  as  we  drove  homeward,  "  tell  me  of 


KATIE   STUART.  89 

what  you  thought  this  morning  when  the  people  came 
near  breaking  down  in  the  singing?" 

"  Have  you  forgotten  that  Abraham  Stewart  was  the 
younger  brother  of  old  Deacon  Stuart,  who  married  my 
aunt,  and  who  always  spelled  his  name  with  the  u  a  ?" 

"  No,  I  have  not  forgotten  it.  I  have  been  thinking 
of  him  this  morning." 

"  Yes ;  but  you  did  not  know  Katie,  the  darling  Katie 
of  my  happiest  memories.  You  were  a  child  when  she 
went  away." 

Not  so  young  as  the  Doctor  thought,  but  I  said  noth- 
ing, and  he  went  on  : 

"  I  was  thinking  of  the  deacon ;  and  when  that  little 
break  in  the  music  occurred,  I  remembered  how  once 
her  voice,  clear  and  heavenly,  led  them  all,  and  when  the 
psalm  was  finished,  I  heard  that  voice  floating  away  into 
the  deep,  far  sky.  It  went  before  her  to  God.  Pure  as 
her  own  soul,  which  I  sometimes  think  was  won  to  heaven 
by  the  returning  melody  of  her  own  songs  !  There  is  no 
angel  there  with  holier  voice.  I  heard  it  this  morning." 

I  was  silent  for  a  little,  thinking,  "  Shall  I  tell  him  how 
well  I  remember  that  morning?"  But  I  did  not  then, 
and  the  subject  came  up  again  in  the  evening,  as  you 
will  learn.  So  I  sat,  and  recalled  a  memory  of  the  old 
church  which  was  very  touching  that  morning  in  con- 
nection with  the  death  of  farmer  Stewart.  Sixty  years 
ago  there  was  a  voice  in  the  choir  that  thrilled  his  heart 
every  Sunday  morning,  so  that  he  listened  to  it  more 
than  to  the  words  of  the  song.  He  was  a  stout,  strong 
man.  and  yet  he  was  a  child  in  the  presence  of  that  coun- 
try maiden,  and  he  loved  her  with  exceeding  love.  He 
served  her  father,  not  so  long  as  Jacob  for  Leah,  yet  with 
no  less  devotion,  and  for  a  while  with  no  more  success. 


90  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

One  day  the  farmer's  family  had  gone  to  visit  a  friend, 
some  ten  miles  distant,  and,  not  having  room  in  their 
wagon,  they  had  returned,  leaving  Lucy  to  be  sent  for. 
And  toward  evening  the  old  man  —  the  young  man,  I 
should  say — how  strange  this  tale  of  his  youth  seems  to 
me  who  have  always  known  him  as  old — the  young  man 
was  sent  for  her,  and,  having  taken  her  into  the  wagon 
with  him,  started  to  return. 

Five  miles  of  the  road  were  accomplished,  when  the 
gloom  of  a  tempest  surrounded  them,  and  a  storm  burst 
on  them  with  terrible  fury.  There  was  no  shelter  for  a 
mile,  save  the  old  church,  that  stood  alone  on  the  hill, 
and  thither  he  urged  his  horse,  with  difficulty  and  no 
small  danger. 

They  reached  the  door,  which  was  never  closed,  for 
the  house  of  God  in  those  days  was  always  open,  and 
the  girl  found  shelter,  while  he  secured  the  horse  in  safe- 
ty under  a  shed,  and  returned  to  her. 

He  had  never  told  her  of  his  love,  and  now  was  a  fair 
opportunity.  In  the  wild  flashes  of  the  lightning,  the  lit- 
tle church  gleamed  out  on  the  valleys  that  it  overlooked, 
like  a  silent,  calm  mother,  to  keep  all  safe  in  the  war  of 
the  elements.  No  one  who  caught  sight  of  it  that  night 
dreamed  that  it  was  occupied ;  but  there  were  two  hearts 
in  it  that  commenced  to  beat  in  unison  that  night  at  the 
altar  where  they  pledged  their  love  to  each  other.  They 
were  not  afraid,  not  terrified,  though  the  tempest  was  fear- 
ful, and  though  every  window  gleamed  in  the  constant 
flashes  of  the  lightning.  With  arms  folded  around  each 
other,  they  knelt  at  the  altar  of  the  old  church,  and  spoke 
to  each  other  of  the  future.  The  storm  passed  on,  and 
they  knelt  there  still.  It  was  a  holy  night,  to  which  in 
after  years  their  souls  recurred  with  never-ceasing  joy. 


THE    GLEN.  91 

Yes,  sneer  —  laugh  —  blaspheme  that  holy  love,  poor 
miserable  dog  of  the  world's  whipping,  who  have  never 
felt  the  blessedness  of  pure,  warm,  woman  love,  but  know 
that  for  sixty  years  of  Sabbaths  while  that  man  worship- 
ped God  at  that  same  altar,  he  never  forgot  that  night, 
nor  failed  to  thank  God  for  that  tempest. 

And  when  they  carried  him  into  the  church  again,  and 
laid  him  down  prone  at  the  altar  foot,  whereby  he  knelt 
with  the  maiden  he  loved  so  long  ago,  if  his  old  bones 
revived  not  at  the  blessed  touch,  if  his  old  heart  thrilled 
not  with  the  remembered  love,  if  his  old  cheek  grew  not 
warm  with  the  balmy  breath,  if  his  old  eyes  smiled  not 
with  the  old,  old  love,  if  he  lay  there  still,  calm,  dead,  I 
tell  you  there  is  an  altar,  a  church,  a  land,  where  they 
two  kneel  together,  where  their  eyes  will  be  radiant  with 
love,  where  their  lips  will  be  eloquent  with  rapturous 
song  !  Again,  and  yet  again,  I  thank  God  for  the  immor- 
tality of  love. 

We  reached  home  about  two  o'clock,  and  sat  on  the 
piazza  all  the  afternoon,  reading  and  talking.  Before  the 
sun  went  down  we  walked  up  the  glen,  and  sat  by  the 
waterfall,  where  the  stream  dashes  down  some  fifty  feet  of 
rock.  Often  in  the  evening  gloom  that  cascade  assumes 
the  appearance  of  a  female  form,  robed  in  white,  sitting 
on  the  rock.  The  western  sun  shines  in  on  the  stream, 
and  you  can  see  the  beauty  of  the  sunset  from  any  seat 
on  the  rocks  above  or  below  the  cascade. 

Abraham  Stewart's  son  rode  over  to  see  us,  and  joined 
us  in  the  glen.  He  told  us  all  about  his  father's  death. 

The  glen  on  such  a  Sunday  afternoon  is  a  place  of 
worship.  There  are  stones  enough  for  sermons,  but  stones 
preach  no  sermons  when  waterfalls  are  nigh.  Cliffs,  prec- 
ipices, mountains,  alike  stand  silent  when  the  water  has 


Q2  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

voice,  all  do  but  echo  the  alternate  music  and  prayers  of 
the  stream. 

For  of  a  verity  that  is  church-like,  minster-like,  cathe- 
dral-like— not  in  the  dome  and  Sunday  music,  but  in  the 
calm  which  enters  and  possesses  our  minds.  One  could 
not  laugh  here  ;  neither  could  he  shout  aloud.  Smile  we 
can,  and  do,  for  smiles  are  not  irreverent,  nor  are  they 
necessarily  out  of  keeping  with  holy  places.  It  depends 
very  much  on  what  sort  of  a  smile  it  is,  for  they  vary  as 
much  as  words ;  but  to  say  that  a  smile  is  always  wrong 
in  sacred  places  or  at  a  sacred  time,  is  as  untrue  as  it 
w-ould  be  to  say  that  it  is  always  wrong  to  speak  in  meet- 
ing, forgetting  altogether  the  psalm,  the  hymn,  and  the 
prayer.  Smiles  in  church  of  a  Sabbath  morning  are  not 
heinous  sins,  and  no  one  thinking  rightly  would  blame 
me  for  the  smile  on  that  Sunday  morning  in  the  church, 
for  it  was  only  the  reflection  on  my  face  of  the  smile  which 
came  on  the  rugged  countenance  of  Abraham  Stewart 
when  he  died.  The  old  man  smiled  ;  of  such  smiles  as 
that,  albeit  you  and  I  have  had  much  of  happiness  and 
hope  in  this  world,  we  have  never  known  the  beatitude ; 
for  it  betokened,  coming  in  on  the  close  of  a  dark,  cloud- 
ed day,  the  sunlight  of  the  land  of  smiles.  For  such,  ver- 
ily, is  heaven,  when  the  folding  arms  of  the  Shepherd,  to 
whom  all  saints  are  lambs,  will  not  be  more  full  of  de- 
light than  the  smile  with  which  he  clasps  them. 

John  Stewart  told  us  about  the  old  man,  and  the  scene 
in  his  old  home  on  the  Saturday  evening.  "  He  was  a 
good  old  man,"  said  Philip.  The  sound  of  the  waterfall 
was  louder  as  he  spoke.  Was  it  a  change  of  the  wind,  or 
was  it,  as  I  sometimes  think,  that  the  God  of  nature  teaches 
the  winds  and  waters  to  bear  testimony  to  the  memory  of 
his  servants  ?  Certainly  the  voice  of  a  mountain  brook 


ABRAHAM    STEWART.  93 

that  I  know  of  is  always  more  musical  and  joyful  when  I 
sit  by  it  and  talk  of  one  who  loved  it  long  ago,  and  whose 
cheerful,  happy  face  and  voice  were  the  pride  of  the  village 
church  and  village  choir.  Certainly  the  ocean  has  no 
such  deep,  full  tone  as  when  I  lie  on  the  beach,  my  elbow 
buried  in  the  sand,  and,  fixing  my  eye  on  one  beloved, 
name  one  who  sank  in  the  great  sea,  whose  shout  went 
up  from  a  wave  top,  a  mountain  summit  of  the  waters, 
whereon  uplifted  he  caught  the  view  of  heaven  sometimes 
granted  to  those  about  to  die,  and  whence  he  escaped  into 
its  peace.  Certainly  the  wind  has  no  such  voice,  no  such 
tone  of  perfect  music,  as  it  used  to  have  among  the  pines 
around  the  Old  House,  while  Joe  Willis  and  I  sat  at  the 
library  window  of  a  September  evening  and  thought  of 
the  beloved  dead  ;  for  we  had  but  to  think  of  them  and 
the  wind  knew  our  thoughts  up  there — on  my  faith,  it  did. 
I  never  had  a  sad  thought  or  a  glad  one  there  that  the 
wind  did  not  seem  to  know  of. 

I  am  certain  that  the  waterfall  had  a  louder  voice  when 
Philip  said  that  Abraham  Stewart  was  a  good  old  man. 
His  record  is  above.  He  has  gone  to  read  it  there.  We 
read  it  here,  and  I  add  my  line  of  praise  to  those  which 
the  hearts  of  the  inhabitants  of  that  country-place  have 
long  preserved. 

Yes,  he  died  gloriously ;  with  a  smile  and  a  shout,  and 
the  voice  of  shouting  like  the  voice  of  many  waters,  which 
they  who  stood  beside  him  heard,  or  thought  they  heard, 
audibly  from  the  assembly  of  saints  and  martyrs  into 
which  he  passed.  He  sang  the  words  of  a  psalm  in  the 
evening  before  he  died,  and  Jessie,  the  child,  took  up  the 
words,  and  ignorant  that  her  grandfather  was  departing 
into  the  solemn  company  of  those  who  had  sung  the 
psalm  in  other  years  in  flame  and  flood,  her  voice  rang 


94  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

out  on  the  hushed  air,  and  sounded  in  heaven,  where  they 
kept  silence  to  listen. 

The  dying  man  turned  his  blue  eyes  lovingly  toward 
the  window  where  his  darling  sat,  and  listened  while  she 
sang ;  and  when  she  came  again  to  the  words  which  are 
repeated  so  many  times  in  the  psalm,  he  joined  with  full 
though  low  voice,  and  motioned  to  all  who  were  around 
him,  and  they  joined  also  in  the  sublime  chorus  : 

"  Oh  that  men  to  the  Lord  would  give  praise  for  his  goodness  then, 
And  for  his  works  of  wonder  done  unto  the  sons  of  men  !" 

And  then  all  hushed,  and  Jessie,  nothing  abashed,  with 
clear,  bird-like  voice  went  on,  and  sang  of  those  that  go 
down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  and  do  business  on  the  great 
waters,  nor  thought  of  the  ocean  that  was  even  then  roll- 
ing around  her  so  tempestuously,  on  whose  billows  the  old 
man  was  tossed.  All  was  silent  while  she  sang.  But  her 
grandfather  seemed  restless,  and,  manifestly,  the  heaven 
of  his  hopes  at  times  was  shut  out  from  his  vision.  But 
when  at  length  the  child  sang  of  the  calm,  the  quiet,  and 
stillness  which  the  voice  of  God  commanded,  and  how 
finally  he  brings  them  who  are  troubled  unto  rest,  them 
who  are  tempest-tossed  unto  their  desired  haven,  the  old 
man  grew  quiet,  his  face  assumed  the  smile  again,  his 
lip  grew  serenely  calm,  his  eye  lustrous,  but  with  the  soft 
lustre  of  a  star  on  a  clear  night  in  the  mountain  country, 
and  again,  but  now  with  loud,  distinct  voice,  full  of  cheer, 
he  joined  the  chorus, 

"  Oh  that  men  to  the  Lord  would  give  praise  for  his  goodness  then  !" 

It  were  vain  with  human  words  to  attempt  a  description 
of  the  passage  from  darkness  to  light,  the  breaking  in  on 
the  scenes  of  earth  of  that  all-holy  radiance,  whereof  the 


AMERICAN    LUXURY.  95 

Sabbath  sunshine,  falling  among  the  pearls  of  the  Fall,  and 
reflected  to  our  eyes  in  the 'effulgence  of  the  bow  of  prom- 
ise, is  only  a  faint  type,  worthy  of  being  such  only  because 
both  are  his  glory  who  made  both.  Let  us  thank  God  that 
the  promise  is  as  unfailing  as  its  glorious  seal,  on  passing 
thunder  cloud,  on  April  tears,  on  the  cataract's  bosom,  on 
the  gleaming  waterfall,  that  sits  on  the  rock  and  laves  her 
flashing  feet  in  the  pool  below,  forever  sure,  in  tears  or 
laughter,  sun  or  storm,  the  promise  that  there  shall  be  no 
more  flood.  Oh  man,  clinging  to  the  last  stem  of  hope 
while  the  stream  of  life  rushes  tumultuously  downward, 
hear  the  voice  of  promise  !  Oh  man,  whose  eye  is  dim 
with  watching,  seated  alone  and  lonesome  on  the  wreck 
of  life,  while  the  tide  rises  and  the  waves  swell  around, 
know  that  though  the  tempest  be  furious,  there  shall  be 
no  more  flood !  Abraham  Stewart  found  the  promise  sure, 
and  when  the  flood  was  gathering,  he  smiled,  and  when  he 
lay  dead  there  was  a  smile  on  his  face  that  did  not  seem 
to  rest  there,  but  it  was  as  if  the  light  of  heaven,  shining 
on  it,  were  now  and  then  intercepted  by  the  swift  wings 
of  attending  angels. 

As  the  night  came  down  we  went  home  and  dined. 
What  would  life  be,  in  cottage  or  camp,  in  labor  or  sport, 
without  dinner? 

"  What  a  luxurious  race  we  Americans  are  getting  to 
be,"  said  Steenburger,  as  we  sat  smoking  in  the  library, 
where  a  cheery  fire  made  the  atmosphere  conversational. 
"We  surpass  the  days  of  that  splendid  extravagance  in 
Rome,  which  history  seems  to  regard  as  unequaled.  Look 
at  it.  We  have  dined  together  here,  and  it  was  a  plain, 
ordinary  dinner.  We  had  a  piece  of  lamb  from  the  home 
farm,  but  I  think  that  was  the  solitary  American  dish  on 
the  table.  The  spices  were  of  all  the  world ;  the  sauces 


96  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

were  made  in  England;  the  vegetables,  peas,  and  toma- 
toes grew  a  thousand  miles  off  in  Bermuda;  the  ancho- 
vies came  from  the  Baltic ;  the  olives  from  the  Mediter- 
ranean ;  the  wine —  Where  did  that  red  wine  come  from, 
Philip  ?" 

PHILIP.  "  From  the  remotest  borders  of  Europe.  It  is 
the  only  Hungarian  wine  I  ever  drank  that  I  liked.  It 
is  Turkenblud,  the  blood  of  the  Turks,  and  only  one  vine- 
yard grows  that  quality.  The  Effendi  here  sent  to  Hun- 
gary for  it." 

STEENBURGER.  "  We  have  had  red  wine  from  the  land 
of  the  ancient  Scythians,  and  white  wine  from  the  banks 
of  the  Rhine.  The  coffee  was  a  mixture  of  Mocha  and 
Java — Africa  and  the  far  Indies  united  for  us  to  concoct 
that  tiny  cup  of  beverage.  The  cup  itself  came  from 
China,  made  there  two  hundred  years  ago;  no  modern 
work  resembles  that  old  ware;  and  the  dinner  was  served 
on  dishes  made  in  France,  three  thousand  miles  off  across 
the  Atlantic.  The  fruits  were  from  Havana ;  there  were 
even  some  dates  from  Barbary,  or  the  Eastern  Mediter- 
ranean, I  don't  know  which." 

PHILIP.  "They  came  from  Mecca;  Mohammed  Abd- 
el-Atti  sent  a  skin  of  them  to  the  Effendi,  and  rightly 
said  there  are  no  such  dates  to  be  found  out  of  Araby 
the  Blessed." 

STEEXBURGER.  "  There  sits  the  Doctor,  still  sipping  his 
little  glass  of  Chartreuse  from  a  convent  in  the  heart  of 
Europe.  What  had  the  Romans  to  compare  with  this, 
a  common  American  dinner  in  New  York?  Your  par- 
don, Philip — it  was  a  good  dinner,  but  nothing  extraor- 
dinary." 

PHILIP.  "You  have  not  half  enumerated  the  foreign 
contributions  to  your  feast.  The  table,  the  chairs,  the 


COMMERCE.  97 

table-cloths,  and  the  napkins — pretty  much  all  the  arti- 
cles on  the  table  are  of  foreign  wood  or  foreign  make. 
The  knives  are  of  steel,  manufactured  in  England  from 
iron  dug  in  Sweden;  and  the  handles  are  ivory,  hunted 
in  the  jungles  of  Ethiopia.  You  are  smoking  at  this  mo- 
ment a  cigar  from  Cuba,  and  I  am  smoking  the  tobacco 
of  the  slopes  of  Lebanon,  in  a  pipe  made  at  Es-Siout,  in 
Egypt,  with  a  stem  of  jessamine  from  Asia,  and  an  am- 
ber mouth-piece  from  the  shores  of  the  Baltic  Sea." 

THE  DOCTOR.  "Life  in  an  American  house  is  some- 
thing like  this  library — a  gathering  of  the  labor  and  in- 
tellect of  all  nations  and  all  times.  What  an  atmosphere 
to  live  in !  A  sweep  of  your  eye  carries  you  through 
centuries." 

PHILIP.  "  But  this  is  not  mere  luxury  after  all.  These 
contributions  of  the  world  to  our  comfort  are  cheaper  by 
far  than  the  same  articles  could  be  made  here  at  home. 
The  poor  and  the  rich  alike  experience  the  benefits  of 
modern  commerce.  The  grand  feature  of  our  age  is  that 
the  industry  of  all  the  world  is  made,  by  the  power  of 
commerce,  to  contribute  to  the  comfort  of  mankind  in 
every  separate  part  of  the  sphere.  The  whole  world  now 
works  for  each  individual  man,  to  clothe  and  feed  him, 
and  make  him  happy.  There  are  some  who,  arguing  from 
the  money-making  point  of  view,  think  it  better  to  forbid 
the  contributions  of  foreign  labor  to  the  inhabitants  of 
each  country.  They  would  have  England,  France,  China, 
Prussia,  Persia,  America,  each  exclude  the  labor  of  the 
other  from  its  soil.  The  policy  carried  out  would  pro- 
tect home  labor  with  a  vengeance  !  It  would  make  the 
laborer's  clothes,  and  tea  and  coffee  and  sugar,  and  even 
his  bread,  in  each  country  so  costly  that  he  must  econo- 
mize more  on  five  dollars  a  day  than  he  ever  used  to  do 

G 


98  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

on  two.  But  this  talk  is  verging  on  politics.  What  are 
you  reading  there,  John  ?" 

STEENBURGER.  "  An  old  hymn  -  book.  You  have  a 
queer  lot  of  books  lying  around  here." 

THE  DOCTOR.  "  An  old  hymn  is  a  great  thing.  What 
voices  have  sung  it !  An  old  hymn-book  is  suggestive — 
what  emotion  it  bears  record  of!  I  very  often  find  rest 
in  reading  old  hymns.  It  is  only  once  in  a  great  while 
that  I  have  a  sensation.  I've  almost  outgrown  sensa- 
tions. When  I  was  fifty  years  old  I  thought  it  over,  and 
concluded  that  I  had  worn  out  the  sensational  possibili- 
ties of  my  soul.  But  an  old  hymn  to  an  old  tune  con- 
vinced me  I  was  mistaken.  One  evening  last  winter  in 
London  I  was  passing  a  church  in  some  street  when  I 
heard  a  strain  of  familiar  music,  and  I  stopped  shorty  just 
in  time  to  catch  the  last  words  of  a  verse  in  the  hymn 
they  were  singing.  Wrhy,  Philip,  they  speak  of  the  war- 
horse  starting  at  the  sound  of  the  trumpet.  So  my  old 
heart  started  at  the  sound  of  that  hymn  and  music." 

MYSELF.  "  I  understand  you.  Once  I  was  walking 
listlessly  of  a  Sunday  afternoon  through  the  narrow 
streets  of  Cairo,  the  heart  of  the  Orient  to  this  day  as  in 
the  days  of  the  Caliphs.  I  came  accidentally  near  the 
house  where  some  missionaries  reside,  and  where  they 
and  their  families  were  holding  service.  Out  on  the 
strange  atmosphere  of  the  old  city,  whose  every  stone 
and  lattice  and  whose  very  sky  were  mysterious,  old,  and 
incomprehensible,  floated  with  perfect  distinctness  the 
words  of  an  old  hymn.  In  an  instant  I  was  carried 
away  to  the  church  in  the  up-country  village,  and  I  leaned 
against  the  wall  of  a  house,  and  thought  and  thought  and 
thought,  till  the  misty  condition  of  my  eyes  reminded  me 
where  I  was.  And  that  wasn't  half  so  powerful  a  sensa- 


OLD    HYMNS.  99 

tion  as  I  had  some  months  later.  I  never  knew  a  more 
tempestuous  night,  for  a  starry  one,  than  I  had  in  Upper 
Egypt,  when  a  fierce  gale  carried  my  boat  through  the 
pass  at  Hagar  Silsilis.  About  nine  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing I  was  standing  on  deck,  watching  the  stars  and  list- 
ening to  the  rush  of  the  boat  through  the  brown  Nile, 
swinging  and  swaying  her  great  sail  as  she  dashed  along. 
Suddenly  I  caught  on  the  wind  the  strain  of  an  old  tune, 
and  I  saw  that  we  were  passing  a  boat  which  lay  near 
the  shore.  There  were  Americans  on  board,  and  the 
very  words  of  the  hymn  came  clearly  to  my  ear;  or  else 
I  imagined  them.  It  was  a  startling  interruption  to  the 
wildness  of  the  scene.  My  Arabs  were  as  heedless  of  it 
as  of  the  wind.  They  lay  on  deck  wrapped  up  in  their 
bournooses,  slumbering  heavily.  The  Nubian  pilot  stood 
firm  at  the  helm.  But  to  me  the  sound  was  like  a  voice 
out  of  the  very  sky.  What  I  saw  in  the  next  moment's 
imagination  it  would  take  hours  to  tell.  We  think  swift- 
ly. You  spoke  to  me  this  morning  of  Deacon  Stuart, 
Doctor. 

STEENBURGER  (waking  from  a  dose}.  "  Deacon  Stuart ! 
What — here  ?  I  thought  he  was  in  glory  forty  years  ago." 

MYSELF.  "  Not  quite  so  long,  as  we  count  time  in  this 
slow  world.  But  twenty-five  years  ago  they  buried  the 
good  man,  then  full  of  years,  ready  to  go,  and  ripe  for 
heaven.  No,  he  is  not  coming  here  to-night,  John;  but  if 
he  didn't  come  to  my  Nile  boat  that  night  with  his  grand- 
daughter Kate,  then  all  I  can  say  is  that  I  had  a  powerful 
imagination.  The  Doctor  told  me  this  morning  that  I 
was  too  young  to  remember  Katie  Stuart.  Old  friend,  I 
had  been  looking  into  her  brown  eyes  all  the  morning 
service  time — looking  through  forty  years  of  storm  and 
through  six  feet  of  heavy  earth.  I  not  remember  Katie  ! 


100  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

Why  she  was  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  whole  congrega- 
tion— older  than  I ;  but  I  used  to  look  at  her  in  church 
and  wonder  if  any  thing  more  beautiful  was  ever  seen  in 
any  age  or  land.  When  I  read  of  Helen  and  Cleopatra 
and  Lucretia,  and  all  the  beauties  of  old  times,  it  was  al- 
ways with  the  notion  that  each  one,  blonde  or  brune,  must 
have  looked  like  Katie  Stuart.  And  a  boy's  impressions 
of  that  kind  last  him  for  life.  And  that  night  that  I  was 
telling  of,  driving  up  the  Nile  before  the  northern  gale, 
when  I  passed  the  American  boat  and  heard  the  sound 
of  a  hymn,  I  saw  in  an  instant  the  old  church  on  that 
very  Sunday  morning  that  you  were  thinking  of,  Doctor ; 
and  all  that  scene  came  back  to  me,  for  they  were  sing- 
ing on  that  Nile  boat  the  same  hymn  which  I  always  re- 
member as  the  last  song  of  Katie  Stuart. 

"  The  church  was  unusually  full  that  morning,  for  there 
had  been  two  deaths  in  the  previous  week,  and  a  funeral 
sermon  was  expected.  The  day  was  bitterly  cold.  The 
thermometer  was  twenty  degrees  below  zero  all  day.  I 
remember  how  much  emotion  was  visible  in  the  church, 
for  the  deaths  had  been  those  of  young  persons  very  much 
loved,  and  there  had  been  a  story  that  one  of  them,  a  fine 
fellow,  but  long  failing,  had  loved  Katie  Stuart  very  dearly. 
Whether  she  knew  it  or  not  no  one  could  say.  But  when 
the  minister  had  finished  a  touching  sermon,  leaving  young 
and  old  in  tears,  and  gave  out  the  hymn  to  sing,  it  was 
hard  work  to  sing  it.  The  precentor  got  along  tolerably 
well  till  he  came  to  the  beginning  of  a  verse  where  he 
found  almost  no  one  to  help  him,  and  he  sang  the  first 
three  or  four  notes  with  only  two  or  three  voices  accom- 
panying him,  and  then  he  broke  down  with  a  sort  of  sob. 
Then — I  can  hear  it  now — how  delicious,  how  glorious  it 
was  ! — Katie  Stuart's  voice,  clear  as  a  bird's,  floated  up,  as 


MEMORY    OF    RHYME.  IOI 

if  she  were  inspired,  and  the  very  atmosphere  was  filled 
with  its  melody  as  she  sang : 

'  I  would  begin  the  music  here 

And  so  my  soul  should  rise  : 
Oh,  for  some  heavenly  notes  to  bear 
My  passions  to  the  skies  !' 

It  was  five  miles  from  the  church  to  the  deacon's  farm. 
The  old  man  drove,  and  Katie  sat  wrapped  in  buffalo 
robes  by  his  side  in  the  sleigh.  I  remember  the  black 
horses  well.  When  they  started  I  was  looking  at  her 
face.  I  had  watched  her  from  the  close  of  the  service. 
She  spoke  to  no  one,  but  went  directly  to  the  sleigh, 
quietly  let  her  grandfather  wrap  the  robes  around  her,  re- 
mained silent,  and  the  horses  went  off  at  a  bound.  What 
the  deacon  thought  of  all  the  way  home  no  one  can  im- 
agine, but  when  he  reached  home  Katie  had  gone  far 
away.  She  was  sitting  wrapped  in  the  robes  with  a  smil- 
ing face,  but  cold  and  calm  and  dead  in  the  sleigh.  That 
hymn  was  her  last  utterance  in  our  language,  which,  make 
it  as  passionate  as  we  may,  does  not,  can  not  remotely 
imitate  the  songs  they  sing  up  yonder." 

THE  DOCTOR.  "  It  is  plain  to  me  that  some  of  our  most 
vivid  memories,  or,  rather,  our  recollections,  are  caused  by 
familiar  sounds,  especially  musical  sounds.  WTe  remem- 
ber rhyme  much  more  easily  than  prose  or  blank  verse." 

STEENBURGER.  "Yes;  I  often  find  a  rhyming  lot  of 
words  wandering  in  my  brain,  and  can't  tell  where  they 
come  from.  I  know  only  that  they  have  been  stowed 
away  somewhere  there  for  a  great  many  years.  Often 
Greek  and  Latin  rhymes  run  through  my  mind  of  which  I 
have  absolutely  forgotten,  if  I  ever  knew,  the  meaning.  It 
is  thirty  years  since  I  played  tag  with  boys,  but  to  this 
hour  I  remember  the  senseless  '  Anor  manor  monar  mike,' 


102  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

and  so  on,  which  we  used  for  choosing  a  runner  ;  and 
Latin  hymns  are  always  more  firmly  fixed  in  my  memory 
than  English." 

THE  DOCTOR.  "Philip,  you  were  abusing  the  'Dies  Iras' 
the  other  day." 

PHILIP.  "  Not  abusing,  Doctor ;  I  was  differing  from 
you  when  you  speke  of  it  as  the  finest  of  the  mediaeval 
hymns." 

THE  DOCTOR.  "  That  is  abuse.  It's  always  acknowl- 
edged to  be  the  finest." 

PHILIP.  "  So  you  said." 

THE  DOCTOR.  "  Don't  you  believe  it  ?" 

PHILIP.  "  I  told  you  no." 

THE  DOCTOR.  "  Why  not,  man  ?  Speak  out.  You  aren't 
used  to  be  afraid  to  express  an  opinion." 

PHILIP.  "  My  good  fellow,  don't  bother  about  my  opin- 
ions. You  and  John  agree  about  the  '  Dies  Iras,'  and  want 
to  drag  me  into  a  debate." 

STEENBURGER.  "  Not  a  bit  of  it,  Phil ;  but  you  will  con- 
fess it  is  a  remarkably  strong  piece  of  Latin  rhyme  ;  the 
most  musical,  in  fact,  that  we  have." 

PHILIP.  "  I  disagree  with  you  ;  and,  since  you  will  have 
it,  I'll  give  you  my  opinion  in  plain  words.  I  think  the 
'Dies  Irae'  has  a  reputation  founded  on  but  little.  Its  long 
use  in  the  Christian  world  as  a  funeral  hymn  has  made  it 
almost  sacred.  But  if  produced  now  for  the  first  time  it 
would  be  justly  and  severely  criticised.  The  Latin  is  bad, 
of  course,  because  it  is  mediaeval.  The  expressions  are 
variable — sometimes  very  strong,  sometimes  weak,  some- 
times worse  than  weak.  The  rhymes  are  abominable." 

STEENBURGER  (starting  up].  "  What  do  you  mean  by 
that?  They're  the  finest  rhymes  conceivable." 

PHILIP.  "John,  do  me  the  favor  to  open  that  Breviary 


THE    DIES    IRjE.  103 

yonder.  It's  old,  and  contains  an  early  copy  of  the  '  Dies 
Iras.'  Just  read  the  rhyming  words  of  the  fourth  stanza 
aloud,  will  you  ?" 

STEEN BURGER  (reads).  "JVatura,  creatura,  responsura." 
PHILIP.  "  Do  you  call  those  rhyming  words  ?     Now  try 
the  seventh." 

STEENBURGER  (reads].  "Dicturus,  rogaturus,  securus." 
PHILIP.  "  Two  terminations  identical  in  both  stanzas, 
and  of  course  no  rhyme.  In  the  eighth  you  will  find  tatis 
and  tatis ;  in  the  eleventh  tionis  and  tionis ;  in  the  thir- 
teenth audisti  rhymes  vi\\kfdedisti ;  and  the  fifteenth  is  ab- 
solutely destitute  of  rhyme,  the  terminations  being prasta, 
questra,  and  dextra,  neither  of  which  rhymes  with  anoth- 
er. The  sixteenth  stanza  has  three  lines  ending  in  dictis. 
Now  observe,  John,  Horace  could  write  very  good  Latin 
without  rhyme,  but,  if  he  had  ever  attempted  to  rhyme,  he 
would  not  have  accomplished  it  by  repeating  the  same 
syllables.  For  the  purposes  of  rhyme,  the  'Dies  Irae'  is 
not  to  be  praised.  As  to  the  Latin,  I  fancy  you  don't 
need  my  criticism.  You  were  always  a  better  Latin  schol- 
ar than  I,  and  you  know  that  there  is  very  poor  Latin, 
and  a  very  weak  construction  in  the  whole  hymn.  The 
sonorous  character  of  the  hymn  in  a  foreign  language, 
where  the  thought  fails  to  follow  the  sense,  alone  saves  it 
from  condemnation.  And,  I  confess,  that  the  English 
translation  of  the  hymn  by  our  lamented  friend,  Slosson, 
is,  to  my  notion,  a  better  poem  than  the  original  Latin. 
And  it  is  the  most  truthful,  as  well  as  the  most  musical 
translation  I  know  of." 

THE  DOCTOR.  "The  last  stanza  always  bothered  me." 
PHILIP.  "  I  suppose  that  Thomas  de  Celano  did  not 
write  that  stanza.     It  appears  to  have  been  a  later  addi- 
tion ;  and  I  incline  to  think  that  it  has  been  changed  by 


104  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

some  copyist  so  as  to  destroy  the  sense.     A  single  letter 
dropped  has  apparently  weakened  the  original  force  of 
the  stanza.     Read  it,  John." 
STEENBURGER  (reads) : 

"  Lacrymosa  dies  ilia  ! 
Qua  resurget  ex  favilla 
Judicandus  homo  reus ; 
Huic  ergo  parce  Deus  !" 

PHILIP.  "  Now,  John,  tell  me  what  is  the  force  and  value 
of  that  word  ergo  in  the  last  line  ?  To  my  notion,  it  never 
implied  any  thing  else  in  Latin  than  the  plain  English 
word  '  therefore.'  But,  if  you  read  it  therefore,  it  is  a 
senseless  word  in  this  line,  referring  to  nothing.  The  lit- 
eral translation  of  the  stanza,  as  it  now  stands,  is  this  : 
'  Oh,  that  day  of  weeping,  in  which  guilty  man  shall  rise 
from  the  ashes  to  be  judged  :  therefore,  spare  him,  oh 
God.'  Now  this  is  a  very  inconsequential  sentence.  Read 
it  in  this  way : 

'  Lacrymosa  dies  ilia  ! 
Quae  resurget  ex  favilla  ? 
Judicandus  homo  reus ! 
Huic  ergo  parce  Deus  !' 

There  you  have  an  intelligible  and  a  strong  passage, 
with  full  force  to  your  ergo.  '  Oh,  that  mournful  day ! 
What  shall  arise  out  of  the  ashes?  Guilty  man  to  be 
judged  !  Him  therefore  spare,  oh  God.'  The  idea  is,  that 
he,  and  only  he,  will  arise  from  the  terrors  of  the  wrath 
which  will  consume  all  earthly  things ;  and  because  he  is 
the  only  thing  permitted  to  arise,  therefore  mercy  is  im- 
plored for  this  solitary  subject  left  undestroyed." 

THE  DOCTOR.  "It  sounds  reasonable.     Go  on,  Philip." 
PHILIP.  "With  what?     I've  done  with  the  '  Dies.'  " 
THE  DOCTOR.  "What  is  the  best  of  the  Latin  hymns  in 
your  opinion,  Effendi  ?     Give  us  your  ideas  on  that." 


THE    SWAN    SONG.  105 

MYSELF.  "  I  could  not  answer  that  question,  Doctor. 
In  my  library,  in  various  volumes,  are  many  hundred  medi- 
aeval Latin  hymns.  Some  books  of  the  i5th  and  i6th  cen- 
turies I  have  preserved  only  because  they  contained  some- 
times one  or  two  Latin  hymns ;  many  of  which,  I  think, 
must  have  been  unknown  to  Daniel  and  to  Mone,  and 
other  collectors,  for  they  are  worthy  a  place  in  any  collec- 
tion. The  number  is  inexhaustible.  When  I  have  a  fa- 
vorite, it  lasts  me  but  a  week  or  two,  and  another  takes  its 
place.  You  could  no  more  say  which  is  the  finest,  than 
you  could  say  which  is  the  finest  of  our  English  hymns. 
One  may  seem  more  musical,  one  more  strong  or  nervous, 
one  more  sonorous,  one  more  pathetic,  one  more  solemn, 
and  so  on.  But  even  in  each  characteristic  there  are  nu- 
merous rivals,  and  much  depends  on  your  own  state  of 
mind  at  the  time  of  reading  a  hymn." 

STEENBURGER.  "  Effendi,  I  heard  you  once,  years  ago, 
speak  of  one  which  you  called  '  The  Swan  Song.'  What 
was  it  ?" 

MYSELF.  "Very  curious  and  very  beautiful;  the  author 
and  period  unknown  ;  but  it  has  as  much  poetic  fire  and 
imagination  in  it  as  any  Latin  song  I  know.  It  is  not  a 
hymn  at  all.  It  is  the  wail  of  a  dying  voluptuary.  Queerly 
enough,  it  reminds  me  at  times  of  some  of  the  eloquence 
of  Augustine.  Philip  has  it.  I  gave  him  a  copy  once." 

PHILIP.  "Yes.  You  will  find  it  in  that  book  with  a  red 
back  on  the  third  shelf,  near  the  side.  That's  it.  Get  it 
out  John,  and  read." 

STEENBURGER  (reads) : 

"CYGNUS   EXSPIRANS. 

"  Parendum  est,  cedendum  est, 
Claudenda  vitae  scena ; 
Est  jacta  sors,  me  vocat  mors, 


IO6  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

Hacc  hora  est  postrema  : 
Valete  res,  valete  spes  ; 
Sic  finit  cantilena. 

"  O  magna  lux,  sol,  mundi  dux. 
Est  concedendum  fatis ; 
Due  lineam  eclipticam, 
Mihi  luxisti  satis  : 
Nox  incubat ;  fax  occidit ; 
Jam  portum  subit  ratis. 

"  Tu  Cynthia  argentea, 
Vos,  aurei  planetas, 
Cum  stellulis,  ocellulis, 
Nepotibus  lucete ; 
Fatalia,  letalia 
Me  nunciant  cometae. 

"  Ter  centies,  ter  millies 
Vale,  immunde  munde  ! 
Instabilis  et  labilis, 
Vale,  orbis  rotunde  ! 
Mendaciis,  fallaciis 
Lusisti  me  abunde." 

THE  DOCTOR.  "What  a  superb  line  that  is?     Vale  im- 
munde munde  /    Go  on,  John/' 
STEENBURGER  (reads] : 

"  Lucentia,  fulgentia 
Gemmis  valete  tecta, 
Seu  marmore,  seu  ebore 
Supra  nubes  erecta. 
Ad  parvulum  me  loculum 
Mors  urget  equis  vecta. 

"  Lucretiae,  qua;  specie 
Gypsata  me  cepistis, 
Imagines,  voragines  ! 
Quae  mentem  sorbuistis, 
En  oculos,  heu  !  scopulos, 
Extinguit  umbra  tristis. 


CYGNUS    EXSPIRANS.  107 

"Tripudia,  diludia, 
Et  fescennini  chori, 
Quiescite,  raucescite  ; 
Praeco  divini  fori, 
Mors,  intonat  et  insonat 
Hunc  lessum  ;  Debes  mori. 

"  Deliciae,  lautitiae 
Mensarum  cum  culina ; 
Cellaria,  bellaria, 
Et  coronata  vina, 
Vos  nauseo,  dum  haurio 
Quern  scyphum  mors  propinat. 

"  Facessite,  putrescite 
Odores,  vestimenta ; 
Rigescite  deliciae. 
Libidinum  fomenta ! 
Deformium  me  vermium 
Manent  operimenta. 

"  O  culmina,  heu  !  fulmina, 
Horum  fugax  honorum, 
Tam  subito  dum  subeo 
vEternitatis  domum, 
Ridiculi  sunt  tituli ; 
Foris  et  agunt  momum. 


"  Lectissimi,  carissimi 
Amici  et  sodales. 
Heu !  insolens  et  impudens 
Mors  interturbat  sales. 
Sat  lusibus  indulsimus ; 
Extremum  dico  vale  ! 

"  Tu  deniqtie,  corpus,  vale, 
Te,  te  citabit  forum  ; 
Te  conscium,  te  socium 
Dolorum  et  gaudiorum  ! 
/Equalis  nos  expectat  sors — 
Bonorum  vel  malorum." 

STEENBURGER  (laying  down  the  book}.  "Why,  that  is  the 


108  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

most  musical  and  mournful,  as  well  as  the  strongest  bit 
of  Latin  rhyme  I  ever  read — and  the  Latin  is  good,  too — 
that's  the  oddest  thing  about  it.  Who  made  it  ?" 

PHILIP.  "Ignotus." 

STEENBURGER.  "  An  unknown  man  ?  Strange,  isn't  it, 
that  so  many  men  are  known  who  ought  to  be  unknown, 
and  so  many  are  unknown  that  one  would  give  all  his  old 
boots  to  know  ?" 


VI. 

AN  EXPLORING  EXPEDITION. 

THERE  is  a  lake  over  the  mountains,  some  forty  miles 
from  the  Rookery,  which  I  had  long  desired  to  see ;  but 
I  could  never  persuade  a  friend  to  go  with  me  on  an  ex- 
ploring expedition.  A  recent  extension  of  the  railway 
had  made  it  somewhat  more  accessible,  if  I  was  to  give 
credit  to  the  information  given  me  by  a  baggage-master, 
who  assured  me  that  the  railroad  crossed  an  old  wood- 
road  which  led  in  three  or  four  miles  to  the  lake. 

There  is,  I  think,  a  love  of  novelty  in  all  anglers.  We 
prefer  to  fish  new  waters  when  we  can,  and  it  is  some- 
times pleasanter  to  explore,  even  without  success,  than  to 
take  fish  in  familiar  places.  New  and  fine  scenery  is  al- 
ways worth  finding.  But  I  could  not  beat  these  ideas 
practically  into  the  brain  of  either  Steenburger  or  Doctor 
Johnston,  and  I  resolved  therefore  on  a  solitary  expedi- 
tion to  the  lake. 

I  had  not  then,  what  I  now  possess,  and  strongly  rec- 
ommend to  roving  anglers,  a  patent  India-rubber  raft, 
made  in  two  cylinders,  with  a  light  frame  to  sit  on.  This 
boat  or  raft,  packing  in  a  small  compass  when  not 
"blown  up,"  weighs  less  than  fifty  pounds,  and  can  be 
carried  on  a  man's  shoulders  to  any  lake  or  pond.  I 
have  frequently  used  it  on  water  never  before  fished,  and 
to  reach  which  it  was  necessary  to  climb  hills  so  steep 


110  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

and  so  covered  with  alternate  rock  and  under-brush  that 
two  men  would  have  found  it  quite  impossible  to  carry 
up  safely  any  boat,  however  light.  An  axe  and  an  auger 
wherewith  to  build  a  raft  were  therefore  essentials  to  my 
equipment,  and  these,  with  some  hard  bread  and  sand- 
wiches, and  one  heavy  and  one  light  fly-rod,  made  up  the 
sum  total  of  my  luggage. 

Taking  the  forenoon  accommodation  train  up  the  road, 
I  went  forward  to  find  my  old  informant,  the  baggage- 
master,  or,  if  not  him,  some  other  one  who  could  supple- 
ment my  scanty  knowledge  of  the  locality  I  was  seeking. 

Luckily  there  was  a  man  who  said  he  knew  all  about 
it,  and,  after  riding  forty  miles  or  so,  the  conductor  stop- 
ped his  train  at  a  road  crossing  in  the  woods,  I  tumbled 
out,  and  civilization  at  once  departed  from  me,  drawn  by 
the  power  of  steam. 

It  had  been  a  sudden  idea,  and  the  realization  was 
somewhat  discouraging.  Alone  in  the  woods,  with  sun- 
dry traps  in  the  way  of  luggage,  and  with  no  other  guide 
than  the  words  of  the  confident  individual  I  had  met  on 
the  cars,  who  said  that  the  lake  lay  at  the  foot  of  a  hill 
to  which  he  pointed  across  the  forest,  I  set  out,  and  aft- 
er a  half-mile  tramp  came  on  the  traces  of  a  clearing, 
and,  soon  descending  into  a  hollow,  found  a  saw-mill. 
Two  men  who  were  running  it  were  evidently  astonished 
at  the  appearance  of  a  traveler,  but  they  very  good-nat- 
uredly offered  advice,  to  wit,  that,  if  one  wanted  trout- 
fishing,  he  could  find  it  then  and  there  in  the  mill-dam, 
but  that  if  he  went  to  the  lake  he  would  find  no  trout, 
for  nobody  ever  could  take  trout  there  except  through 
the  ice  in  the  winter. 

"  What  size  do  they  take  them,  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  sometimes  five  or  six  pounds." 


THE    UNKNOWN    LAKE.  I  I  I 

This  was  the  same  story  I  had  heard  at  a  distance, 
and  it  confirmed  my  hopes.  I  chatted  a  while  with  the 
sawyers,  and  tried  the  contents  of  their  pond.  A  few 
casts  brought  up  some  small  trout,  and  at  length  a  very 
decent  fish,  perhaps  a  pound  in  "weight,  rose  to  the  scar- 
let ibis.  Landing  him,  and  leaving  him  with  the  others 
for  the  use  of  the  men,  who  had  never  before  seen  fly- 
fishing, and  were  astonished  at  the  process,  I  pushed  on 
in  the  afternoon  toward  the  unknown  lake  or  pond.  The 
road  became  less  a  road  and  more  a  path  as  it  ascended 
hill  after  hill,  winding  and  pleasant,  but  always  tending 
upward.  At  last  it  opened  on  a  large  clearing  where 
stood  a  ruined  log  house,  deserted  long  ago,  and  a  tol- 
erably decent  barn,  in  which  there  was  a  small  quantity 
of  dry  hay.  This  was  an  unexpected  luxury,  for  I  had 
calculated  on  a  night  in  camp.  I  took  possession  of  the 
only  tenantable  end  of  the  log  house,  deposited  my  pack- 
ages, and  resolved  to  make  this  my  head-quarters,  since 
it  was  evident  the  lake  was  distant  not  over  a  mile  at 
most.  Then  taking  a  light  rod  I  plunged  into  the  forest, 
and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  emerged  on  the  banks  of 
the  lake.  It  lacked  an  hour  of  sunset,  and  there  was 
but  little  time  for  the  examination  of  the  shores.  Boat 
there  was  none.  The  unbroken  forest  surrounded  the 
sheet  of  water.  There  was  no  time  this  evening  to  con- 
struct a  raft,  and  if  I  was  to  have  trout  for  supper,  it 
must  be  by  casting  from  the  shore,  and  so  I  went  to  work 
at  once. 

In  visiting  a  new  lake  like  this,  the  chances  are  always 
against  the  fisherman.  He  knows  nothing  of  the  special 
haunts  of  the  trout,  and  can  form  no  opinion  of  the  shape 
of  the  bottom  of  the  pond — an  idea  of  which  is  generally 
necessary  to  guide  one  in  looking  for  this  fish.  The 


112  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

safest  rule  is  therefore  to  seek  for  the  main  inlet,  and, 
if  the  water  is  here  found  shoal,  to  wade  out  far  enough 
to  get  a  cast  over  deeper  water.  Beginning  on  this  rule, 
I  had  a  long  hunt  for  the  inlet,  and  it  was  after  sunset 
before  I  found  it.  It  happened  fortunately  that  there 
was  an  accumulation  here  of  old  drift-wood,  well  packed 
together,  which  supported  me,  and  I  had  a  good  clear 
back  cast.  For  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  it  was  all  vain 
work.  Nothing  broke  the  surface  which  had  life.  The 
gloom  began  to  settle  on  the  lake.  It  grew  cold  withal, 
and  the  wind  was  sharp.  I  frankly  confess  that  by  this 
time  I  wanted  fish  because  I  was  hungry.  If  supper 
were  to  be  confined  to  three  or  four  pieces  of  hard  bread, 
it  was  not  to  be  regarded  with  any  earnest  longings  and 
joyous  anticipations.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  I  could  look 
to  the  rich  salmon-colored  meat  of  a  trout  as  waiting  me 
in  the  old  log  house,  it  was  something  worth  thinking 
about. 

And  as  I  thought  about  it,  he  rose  with  a  heavy  rush, 
and  slashed  the  tail-fly  with  his  own  broad  tail  and  went 
down  again.  Cast  after  cast,  and  he  would  not  rise  again. 
So  I  fell  back  at  last  on  the  old  white  moth,  and,  taking 
off  all  the  other  flies,  cast  this  alone,  in  the  twilight  which 
was  now  almost  darkness.  He  came  up  at  it  at  the  first 
cast,  and  took  it,  head  on,  following  the  fly  from  behind. 
It  is  not  often  on  still  water  that  a  trout  takes  a  fly  with 
his  mouth  before  striking  it  with  his  tail ;  but  they  some- 
times do  it  on  a  white  fly  in  the  evening,  and  from  this 
fact  it  seems  likely  that  they  regard  it  as  an  animal  mov- 
ing in  the  water  and  not  as  a  fly  at  all. 

He  took  it  and  turned  down,  then,  as  he  felt  the  hook, 
swayed  off  with  a  long,  steady  surge,  and  circled  half 
around  me.  Supper  was  tolerably  certain  now,  and  my 


SALT.  113 

appetite  at  once  rose.  In  less  than  five  minutes  I  had 
him,  a  good,  solid  three-pounder,  in  the  landing-net,  and 
at  once  struck  a  bee  line  for  the  log  house  in  the  clearing. 

The  cabin  was  nothing  to  boast  of  as  a  shelter.  The 
roof  was  tight  over  the  end  opposite  the  chimney,  but  the 
windows  were  destitute  of  glass,  and  the  breeze,  which 
had  sprung  up  freshly  before  I  left  the  lake,  was  talking 
loudly  to  itself  inside  of  the  place  as  I  approached  it. 
There  was  plenty  of  wood  around  the  old  hut,  and  in  ten 
minutes  I  had  the  chimney  blazing  at  a  terrible  rate. 
Fire-light  is  as  much  of  a  polisher  in-doors  as  moonlight 
outside.  It  smoothes  down  all  the  roughness  of  an  in- 
terior. It  reddened  the  walls  of  the  cabin  and  covered 
them  with  dancing  images.  I  had  nothing  in  the  way  of 
eatables  except  the  trout,  hard  bread,  and  some  salt.  The 
salt  was  the  great  article.  It  was  on  the  faith  of  that  salt 
that  I  had  ventured  on  the  expedition.  With  a  few  pinch- 
es of  salt  and  a  good  rod  or  gun,  one  may  live  luxuriously 
for  a  while,  if  he  have  luck.  Without  the  salt — only  im- 
agine it.  You  may  not  think  much  of  it  as  a  thing  to 
possess,  but  just  reverse  the  picture  and  imagine  fish  and 
game  in  abundance  without  it,  and  you  may  thereby  find 
in  some  measure  what  it  is  worth. 

I  recall  oftentimes  a  scene  at  Wady  Halfe  where  the 
palms  of  Ethiopia  bear  golden  fruit,  but  where  salt  is 
worth  more  than  golden  dates.  There  I  have  bought 
bushels  of  luxurious  fruit  for  a  single  handful  of  the  con- 
densed brine  from  the  far-off  sea. 

One  half  of  the  trout  was  turning  before  the  blaze,  hung 
on  the  small  end  of  a  birch  sapling ;  the  other  half  was 
reserved  for  breakfast,  for  it  was  by  no  means  certain  that 
any  other  food  was  to  be  found.  A  pile  of  hay  from  the 
barn  made  a  soft  bed  in  the  sheltered  end  of  the  room. 

H 


114  !    GO    A-FISHING. 

While  the  fire  burned  I  mused,  and  before  the  musings 
had  assumed  form  the  trout  was  cooked,  and  then  my 
supper  was  ready  and  eaten,  the  bed  looked  more  and 
more  inviting,  and  by  nine  or  ten  o'clock  I  was  sound 
asleep  in  the  corner. 

Morning  found  me  sleeping.  The  sun  and  air  were 
streaming  in  at  the  window-frames  innocent  of  sash  or 
glass.  But  while  the  question  of  breakfast  was  under 
discussion,  a  voice  came  in  by  the  same  avenues  with  the 
sunshine  and  wind,  singing  a  cheery  song,  and  I  saw  the 
tall  form  of  one  of  the  sawyers  of  the  mill  swinging  along 
toward  the  wood  in  the  direction  of  the  lake.  He  pulled 
up  at  a  hail  and  turned  to  the  cabin. 

"  Glad  to  see  you  lively  this  morning,"  he  said  in  a  hearty 
voice.  "  I  thought  I'd  come  over  and  bring  you  suthin' 
to  eat ;  expected  to  find  you  in  camp,  down  along  the 
pond."  Then,  entering  the  cabin  and  seeing  the  half  of 
the  last  night's  trout  hanging  before  the  fire — "  Well,  you 
seem  to  ha'  taken  care  of  yourself.  You  don't  say  you 
got  that  feller  last  night  with  one  of  them  little  poles  o' 
yourn?" 

We  made  a  substantial  meal  together  at  once,  and  the 
best  thanks  that  could  be  given  my  friend  \vere  visible  in 
the  justice  done  to  his  corn-bread  and  hard  eggs.  He 
had  come  three  miles  across  the  country  on  this  hospi- 
table errand,  and  was  delighted  when  I  proposed  to  him 
to  spend  the  day  on  the  lake,  and  promised  to  go  home 
with  him  in  the  evening. 

The  first  work  was  the  building  of  a  raft.  To  the  un- 
initiated it  is  often  a  puzzle  how  rafts  are  constructed  by 
fishermen  in  the  forests,  and  possibly  there  are  not  many 
sportsmen  who  have  regarded  an  axe  and  an  auger  as 
parts  of  an  outfit.  The  two  things  are  essential  to  a  for- 


THE   YELLOW    FLY.  115 

est  expedition,  and  in  going  to  fish  an  unknown  sheet  of 
water  one  might  almost  as  well  leave  his  rod  behind  him 
as  these  tools.  There  are  ways  of  getting  on  without  the 
auger,  but  a  raft  lashed  together  with  withes  is  a  danger- 
ous craft.  I  have  had  such  a  one  part  with  me  in  mid- 
lake,  while  I  swam  ashore  with  my  rod  in  my  hand,  los- 
ing even  the  fish  I  had  taken.  In  the  present  case  I  had 
both  tools.  The  construction  of  the  raft  was  very  simple. 
Two  pine-trees  supplied  six  logs,  each  about  a  foot  in  di- 
ameter, which  were  rolled  into  the  water  and  floated  side 
by  side,  a  few  inches  apart.  Across  these  smaller  tim- 
bers were  laid,  the  axe  shaping  them  down  flat  where 
wooden  pegs  were  driven  in  auger-holes  through  them 
into  the  heavy  logs.  It  was  but  little  over  an  hour's 
work  to  complete  it,  for  the  timber  was  at  hand  in  good 
size  and  quantity.  Then  we  covered  the  raft  with  balsam 
boughs,  to  stand  or  sit  or  lie  down  on,  and  a  couple  of 
long  poles  finished  the  furniture  of  the  vessel  on  which 
we  pushed  out  at  the  inlet  of  the  lake.  The  day  was  so 
much  more  beautiful  than  the  previous  one  that  the  lake 
appeared  like  a  new  place,  and  the  trout  were  rising  on 
the  surface  here  and  there  in  a  way  which  indicated  that 
the  warm  sunshine  had  brought  out  some  small  flies,  in- 
visible to  the  eye  at  a  distance,  but  satisfactory  as  indi- 
cating that  the  fish  were  on  the  feed.  It  was  nearly  ten 
o'clock  when  I  began  casting.  But  nothing  rose  to  my 
flies  till  I  had  changed  them  twice  or  oftener,  and  had  on 
at  length  three  small  gnats,  a  dun,  a  yellow,  and  a  black, 
and  then  came  the  first  strike  at  the  yellow,  a  half-pound 
fish  soon  killed.  Another  at  the  yellow  again,  a  some- 
what larger  fish,  gave  me  some  slight  work,  and  a  third 
took  the  yellow  once  more,  and  thereupon  I  changed  :  the 
dropper  yellow,  the  tail-fly  yellow,  and  intermediate  a 


Il6  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

small  scarlet  ibis.  The  first  cast  made  with  this  new 
bank,  as  some  men  call  the  arrangement,  cost  me  the 
scarlet  fly.  A  large  fish  took  the  dropper,  and  at  the 
same  instant  another  struck  the  ibis.  They  headed  in 
opposite  directions,  and  the  very  stroke  of  the  two  parted 
the  slender  thread.  I  landed  but  one  on  that  cast,  and 
only  once  after  that  had  two  at  the  same  time,  and  then 
saved  them  both. 

The  sport  continued  good  till  about  one  o'clock,  and 
then  ceased.  The  breeze  rippled  the  water,  the  flies  were 
increasing  in  number  in  the  warm  sunshine,  but  feeding 
time  was  over  and  the  fish  went  down.  I  have  seen  the 
same  thing  often  on  other  waters. 

The  object  of  the  expedition  was  accomplished.  There 
were  trout  in  the  lake — they  would  rise  to  the  fly.  Over 
a  dozen  beautiful  large  fish,  and  nearly  another  dozen 
which  ran  below  a  half  pound  each,  were  fair  evidence  of 
the  contents  of  this  water.  Six  of  the  smaller  fish  had 
been  taken  with  bait  by  my  friend,  the  sawyer.  He  had 
cut  a  birch  rod,  and  with  hook  and  line  which  I  sup- 
plied, and  the  fin  of  a  trout  for  bait,  which  he  kept  con- 
stantly moving  near  the  bottom  of  the  lake,  he  had  cap- 
tured a  half-dozen  fair-sized  fish. 

So  we  left  the  raft  to  drift  toward  the  leeward  side  of 
the  lake,  and  started  for  the  log  house  in  the  clearing ; 
and  thence,  carrying  heavy  weight,  we  trudged  over  the 
hills  to  the  home  of  my  friend  of  the  mill. 

It  is  one  of  the  most  pleasant  incidents,  not  uncommon 
either,  in  the  life  of  a  roving  angler,  to  find  the  hospitality 
of  a  warm  American  country  home.  There  is  no  other 
country  in  the  world  where  such  incidents  can  happen, 
for  nowhere  else  are  there  outlying  farms  and  homes  in 
the  forest,  in  which  one  can  meet  with  that  measure  of 


A    FARM-HOUSE   STORY.  117 

refinement  and  cultivation  which  marks  American  farm- 
ers' families.  Books,  magazines,  and  newspapers  find 
their  way  into  the  remotest  settlements,  and  it  is  a  pleas- 
ing fact  that  newness  or  freshness  in  the  literature  is  not 
an  essential  to  its  enjoyment.  Life  glides  on  so  evenly 
that  there  is  no  thirst  for  novelty,  no  excitement  which 
requires  peculiar  stimulus.  It  is  the  custom  of  many  an- 
glers whom  I  know  to  gather  in  the  autumn  all  their  old 
magazines  and  literature  of  various  kinds,  and  send  it  to 
such  distant  homes  in  the  forest,  where  it  helps  the  winter 
through,  and  where  the  giver  finds,  and  is  sometimes  glad 
to  find  it  in  the  spring. 

My  sawyer  friend  brought  me  to  such  a  house.  The 
fire-light  was  shining  from  the  kitchen  hearth  through  the 
open  door  as  we  approached,  and  an  old  woman,  with  a 
bright  and  sunny  smile  on  her  face,  welcomed  her  son 
and  his  guest  on  the  threshold.  The  two  lived  together 
here,  in  a  snug  frame  house,  low  down  in  the  valley,  and 
only  a  half-mile  from  the  open  country  where  was  a  small 
village  and  a  church.  "  If  it  were  daylight,  you  could  see 
the  church,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  but  as  it  is  you  can  only 
see  the  lights  in  Alice  Brand's  farm-house." 

And  later  in  the  evening,  after  we  had  dined,  or  supped, 
royally,  and  were  sitting  before  the  hearth  talking  of  this, 
that,  and  the  other  thing,  the  old  lady  told  me  a  story 
about  Alice  Brand's  farm-house. 

Forty  years  ago  Stephen  Brand  was  a  farmer  in  the 
valley  near  the  church,  well  to  do  in  the  world,  and,  as  he 
hoped,  with  some  treasure  laid  up  where  it  could  not  cor- 
rupt. At  all  events  Stephen  was  a  light  in  the  church, 
and  had  been  a  judge,  or  something  of  the  sort,  in  his 
county.  For  a  long  time  the  stout  old  man  had  served 
his  country,  and  he  was  beginning  to  be  weary. 


Il8  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

He  had  one  son ;  but  Walter  Brand,  the  child  of  his 
old  age,  was  a  wanderer,  and  his  wife  Alice,  the  daughter 
of  the  clergyman,  lived  in  the  old  house  with  Stephen,  and 
cared  for  him  and  superintended  the  domestic  duties  of 
the  home-farm. 

Alice  had  been  a  favorite  in  the  village  before  her  mar- 
riage, and  most  persons  thought  well  of  the  match ;  but 
Walter  was  a  restless  boy,  and  although  sole  heir  to  "his 
father's  wealth,  which  was  not  small,  and  although  he  had 
a  gentle  wife  at  home  that  loved  him  truly  and  fondly,  he 
yet  preferred  to  rove,  and  seldom  returned  to  the  old 
place  under  the  elms. 

They  had  one  child.  He  was  a  boy,  and  from  his  birth 
was  so  like  the  old  man  that  you  were  startled  and  almost 
frightened  at  the  strange  resemblance.  There  was  an  old 
look  on  the  child's  face  that  grew  tenfold  older  every  year 
that  he  lived,  and  when  he  was  seven,  you  might  have 
taken  his  countenance  for  that  of  a  man  of  seventy.  He 
was  hopelessly  deformed.  This  sorrowful  truth  began  to 
force  itself  on  the  mother's  mind  before  he  was  two  years 
old,  and  at  length  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  the  fact. 
Like  all  deformed  children  of  tender-hearted  parents,  he 
was  far  more  dear  to  his  mother  on  this  very  account,  and 
she  cherished  him  as  a  very  gem  lost  out  of  heaven  and 
found  by  them.  And  such  he  was.  There  was  a  depth 
of  quiet  beauty  in  his  childish  soul  that  passed  all  sound- 
ing. No  one  seemed  to  penetrate  its  mysteries  except 
the  old  man,  his  grandfather,  and  he  would  sit  for  hours 
looking  into  the  large  black  eyes  of  the  boy,  and  appar- 
ently gazing  into  the  very  soul  of  his  pet.  They  grew  to 
each  other.  The  old  man  for  his  sake  came  half  way 
back  to  his  childhood  and  met  him — for  the  boy  seemed 
to  be  half  wav  to  old  age,  even  at  six  vears  old.  Alice 


A    FARM-HOUSE    STORY.  119 

was  happy  in  that  growing  love,  and  watched  them  with 
eyes  full  of  tears  at  the  thought  that  ere  long  the  old  man 
must  go  down  to  silence,  and  the  boy  live  on  alone. 

Sometimes  they  would  walk  together,  and  sit  down  un- 
der a  tree  on  the  river  bank  and  talk.  No  one  knew 
what  they  talked  of  in  such  moments,  but  doubtless  the 
grandfather  had  visions  of  the  world  he  was  entering,  and 
communicated  them  to  the  boy.  And  so  years  traveled 
along,  and  they  all  grew  older  together,  and  when  once  in 
a  while  Walter  came  back,  the  house  was  happy. 

But  a  change  came.  The  cheek  of  Stephen  Brand  grew 
paler  and  paler  as  he  grew  more  feeble,  and  he  felt  that 
the  hour  was  approaching  when  he  must  go  away  by  the 
dark  road  ;  and  the  boy's  life  was  so  knitted  to  that  of  his 
grandfather,  that  he  too  seemed  visibly  to  fail  from  day 
to  day.  It  was  a  curious  circumstance,  and  did  not  fail 
to  attract  the  attention  of  the  family  and  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  wise  old  women  prophesied  that  the  boy  would 
not  outlive  the  old  man. 

And  now  the  two  talked  constantly  and  steadily  from 
morning  till  night  and  late  into  the  night.  Sometimes 
they  were  seated  by  the  fire  in  the  old  hearth,  sometimes 
in  the  large  chairs  facing  each  other  that  stood  in  Stephen's 
room,  and  as  the  spring  advanced  they  sat  sometimes 
under  the  large  elm  that  was  near  the  well,  and  oftener 
still  on  the  river  bank  by  the  spring.  And  their  conver- 
sation was  no  secret,  but  was  of  the  high  and  blessed 
promises  for  the  future,  of  the  light  that  shone  all  along 
that  otherwise  dark  sad  road  they  were  traveling.  Alice 
wept  in  secret  every  day,  but  never  let  them  see  her  tears. 
She  went  cheerfully  about  her  household  work,  and  in  the 
dull  routine  of  a  farmer's  life  sought  to  forget  the  bitter- 
ness of  the  coming  separation. 


120  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

It  came  at  length.  One  pleasant  morning  in  the  sum- 
mer, when  the  birds  sang  with  unusual  cheer,  and  sky  and 
earth  seemed  to  come  close  together  in  their  affection,  the 
inseparable  two  walked  feebly  out  together,  and  down  to 
the  old  seat  on  the  river  bank.  Alice  was  alarmed  about 
them,  and  followed  them  herself,  but  when  she  saw  them 
seated  safely  she  returned  and  worked  sadly  on  until 
noon.  But  they  did  not  return  as  usual,  and  she  hasten- 
ed down  the  pathway  across  the  field,  and  sought  them 
by  the  spring.  But  they  were  not  there.  A  wild  terror 
seized  on  her,  and  she  sank  trembling  on  the  seat  beside 
the  old  man's  hat  which  lay  on  it.  A  brief  search  reveal- 
ed the  sad  story.  The  boy  had  sought  something  in  the 
edge  of  the  water,  and  in  his  feebleness  had  fallen.  The 
old  man  had  tried  to  rescue  him,  and  perished  with  him. 
The  two  were  found  together,  and  together  carried  to  the 
old  farm-house,  out  of  which  the  lights  had  now  forever 
gone. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  I've  heard  the  passing-bell 
many,  many  times  in  the  valley,  but  I  never  heard  it 
sound  so  strange  as  it  did  that  afternoon  when  it  came 
up  the  valley  and  I  counted  it.  It  was  ever  so  long  be- 
fore I  got  to  eighty-seven,  and  then  I  knew  that  Stephen 
Brand  was  gone,  and  I  was  just  thinking  how  lonesome 
poor  little  Steve  would  be,  when  it  struck  again.  Upon 
my  word,  sir,  it  almost  knocked  me  off  my  chair;  and 
when  I  counted  fourteen,  I  just  sat  here  trembling  all 
over,  and  then  I  fell  to  crying  like  any  child." 

"  Mrs.  Brand  still  lives  on  the  farm,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Alice,  you  mean  ?  Oh  yes.  The  death  of  the  two 
who  had  been  so  close  to  her  was  a  heavy  affliction,  and 
she  was  pretty  much  broken  down ;  but  it  brought  a 
blessing  that  repaid  her,  for  Walter  came  home  at  once, 


GHOSTS.  121 

and  somehow  their  old  love  sprang  up  again  quite  fresh, 
and  he  did  not  go  away,  and  they  settled  down  into  a 
happy  sort  of  life.  They're  living  in  the  old  house  now. 
It's  Alice's,  for  the  old  man  left  it  to  her  and  not  to  Wal- 
ter. He'd  be  glad  to  see  you,  sir.  It  isn't  often  he 
hears  from  his  old  friends  in  the  city.  She's  my  cousin, 
Alice  is.  Sam,  why  don't  you  walk  down  to  the  farm 
and  see  Walter  ?  It'll  do  him  good,  for  he's  getting  old 
and  growing  stiff.  Sam,  you're  not  afraid  of  ghosts  ?" 

"  No,  no,  I  thank  you.  I'm  too  content  with  your  hos- 
pitality to  go  away  from  it  to-night,"  I  said,  in  reply  to 
Sam's  proffer  of  an  escort  for  the  call.  But  I  noticed 
that  it  was  the  allusion  to  ghosts  that  had  started  him 
out  of  his  easy  seat,  and  I  looked  for  an  explanation. 

"  It's  not  strange,"  said  my  hostess,  "  that  superstitious 
people  should  have  made  a  ghost  story  out  of  the  curious 
life  and  death  of  the  old  man  and  his  grandson.  But 
for  a  man  six  feet  high  and  well  educated  as  Sam  is,  I 
call  it  absurd." 

"  Sam  believes  it  ?" 

"  Sam  declares  he  saw  them.  The  people  used  to  say 
they  two  haunted  the  side  of  the  brook.  Sam  goes  fish- 
ing for  trout  sometimes  of  an  evening  down  the  hollow, 
and  he  declares  he  saw  them  one  night,  the  tall  old  man 
and  the  little  boy,  moving  along  in  the  edge  of  the  bushes 
and  looking  and  pointing  toward  the  old  house.  But  as 
to  its  being  ghosts  he  saw  I  never  believed  it,  for  I  al- 
ways thought  the  ghosts  were  Tim  Stevens  and  his  boy 
on  their  way  to  steal  Alice  Brand's  chickens.  She  gen- 
erallv  misses  some  about  the  time  the  ghosts  are  around." 


VII. 

THE  ST.  REGIS  WATERS  IN  OLD  TIMES. 

MY  first  knowledge  of  the  St.  Regis  waters  was  in 
1860.  The  sun  was  approaching  the  forest  horizon,  but 
had  not  yet  reached  it.  All  the  day  we  had  been  asking 
of  the  people  the  distance  we  had  yet  to  travel,  and  nev- 
er was  there  a  country  in  which  the  people  knew  as  little 
about  it,  or  in  which  opinions  so  much  differed.  No  two 
persons  agreed  in  any  instance,  and  wre  began  at  length 
to  ask  every  one  we  met,  old  and  young,  for  the  mere 
sake  of  having  a  laugh  at  the  new  numbers  we  knew  we 
should  get  in  reply. 

Thus  at  Bloomingdale,  we  were  assured  by  a  man,  who 
said  he  ought  to  know,  that  the  distance  to  Paul  Smith's 
was  exactly  eleven  miles,  and  then,  when  we  had  driven 
about  three  miles,  we  were  told  by  a  farmer  in  the  fields 
that  we  had  yet  twelve  miles  to  drive,  and  a  hundred 
rods  farther  we  met  a  man  who  told  us  it  was  thirteen  ! 
The  next  inquiry  was  of  a  bright  eyed  little  girl  in  front 
of  a  cottage,  who  answered  that  it  was  nine  miles  to  Paul 
Smith's ;  and  we  drove  on  patiently  across  the  long 
swamp,  across  a  barren  and  desolate  sweep  of  country, 
and  ascending  a  little  hill  we  re-entered  the  forest. 

It  was  profoundly  still  in  the  deep  shades  through 
which  we  passed.  The  spirit  of  silence  and  repose 
seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  the  woodland,  and 


PAUL    SMITHS.  123 

the  sharp  crack  of  a  dry  stick  under  the  wheels  of  our 
wagon  appeared  a  rude  invasion  of  the  domain  of  quiet. 

The  horses  were  pretty  well  used  up.  It  was  then 
fifty-five  miles  from  Port  Kent  to  Paul  Smith's,  according 
to  the  most  approved  authorities,  and  this  is  a  hard  day's 
work  for  horses  not  used  to  the  road.  They  lounged  idly 
down  the  wood-road  through  which  we  were  now  passing, 
but  soon  pricked  up  their  ears  as  they  saw  through  the 
trees  the  gleam  of  a  barn,  and  then  put  on  the  old  speed, 
for  a  little,  to  bring  us  up  to  the  door  of  Paul  Smith's 
house  on  Follansbee  Pond. 

Our  welcome  was  warm  and  hearty.  Paul  Smith's 
name  is  not  Paul,  but  Apollos  A.  Smith,  and  the  other 
name  is  a  way  of  pronouncing  it  short.  I  have  used  it 
because  he  is  best  known  by  it.  It  was  then  about  two 
years  since  he  first  broke  the  ground  on  the  bank  of  this 
lake  to  build  the  house  he  occupies.  It  was  up  to  that 
time  a  wild  spot,  as  it  still  is.  Selecting,  with  good  taste 
and  judgment,  a  wooded  bank  where  tall  pines  stretch  a 
hundred  feet  above  the  shore,  he  had  hewn  away  only  so 
many  as  were  in  the  way  of  his  building,  and  left  the  rest 
standing  in  primeval  grandeur  around  the  house.  The 
scene  was  therefore  one  of  rare  beauty  —  one  to  be 
dreamed  of,  but  seldom  to  be  seen.  The  pond,  which  is 
one  of  the  St.  Regis  chain  or  series,  is  about  three  miles 
long,  and  three  quarters  of  a  mile  broad.  They  call  it 
now  the  Lower  St.  Regis.  The  upper  end  of  the  pond 
connects  by  a  narrow  river  (on  nearly  the  same  level) 
with  the  Spitfire  Pond,  and  this  by  a  short  stream  with 
St.  Regis  Lake,  over  which  the  St.  Regis  hill  stands  up, 
the  highest  hill  among  the  lakes  (for  the  Adirondack 
hills  are  off  to  the  south  of  us).  From  the  front  piazza 
of  Smith's  we  can  see  the  sides  and  summit  of  the  St. 


124  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

Regis,  apparently  three  or  four  miles  distant.  From  the 
summit  of  the  hill  you  can  count  more  than  seventy  lakes 
lying  around  you.  The  water-flow  is  from  the  St.  Regis 
into  the  Spitfire,  thence  into  the  Follansbee,  or  Lower 
St.  Regis,  and  then  by  the  St.  Regis  River  northward  to 
the  St.  Lawrence. 

Having  selected  this  point  with  so  much  judgment,  Mr. 
Smith  has  been  careful  not  to  spoil  nature  by  attempt- 
ing any  improvement  on  the  forest  and  lake.  The  two 
are  here,  and  what  more  do  you  want  for  beauty  of  scen- 
ery? 

We  were  somewhat  chilled  when  we  reached  the  door, 
but  the  warm  welcome  was  itself  sufficient  to  make  us 
comfortable,  and  I  would  not  go  into  the  house  when  that 
sun  was  going  down  in  such  splendor.  So  I  only  ran  in 
to  see  the  more  delicate  portion  of  my  party  taken  care 
of,  and  then  I  demanded  whether  it  was  possible  to  take 
any  trout  before  dark. 

Stephen  Turner  replied  to  my  question.  One  of  the 
oldest  of  the  forest  guides,  a  warm-hearted  old  man,  whom, 
if  I  were  going  for  a  week  or  a  month's  sojourn  into  the 
forest,  I  would  select  as  the  best  of  company,  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  his  business,  and  withal  a  great  talker 
and  a  fair  listener. 

From  him  I  learned  that  brook  trout  were  abundant  in 
one  part  of  the  pond,  close  by  the  house  ;  and  as  the  twi- 
light was  at  hand,  I  was  resolved  to  make  a  few  casts 
that  very  evening.  So  we  took  a  boat  and  pushed  off 
into  the  blue  and  crimson  splendor  which  filled  the  basin 
of  the  placid  lake.  A  hundred  strokes  of  the  paddle  sent 
the  light  boat  around  the  end  of  a  rocky  point  covered 
with  lofty  wood,  and  we  coasted  the  edge  of  a  large  tam- 
arack swamp  through  which  a  cold  stream  of  spring  wa- 


EVENING    ON    FOLLANSBEE.  125 

ter  found  its  way  down  to  the  lake.  The  mouth  of  the 
stream  was  wide,  and  a  dozen  rods  or  so  from  the  shore 
there  were  masses  of  lily  pads  growing  from  the  mud 
which  the  stream  brought  into  the  lake.  Between  the 
pads  and  the  mouth  of  the  stream  we  dropped  anchor,  and 
I  threw  my  flies  over  the  surface  of  the  clear  water. 

It  was  long  before  we  had  a  rise — so  long  that  I  began 
to  doubt  the  tremendous  stories  with  which  my  old  friend 
Turner  had  been  amusing  me.  I  changed  my  flies.  I 
led  with  a  yellow  and  gold,  and  followed  him  with  a  plain 
brown ;  and  then  I  led  with  a  scarlet  ibis,  and  followed 
with  a  hog's  wool  gray ;  and  then  I  changed  and  changed 
again,  trying  large  flies  and  small  gnats,  hackles  and  im- 
itation grubs ;  and  then  I  gave  up  casting,  and,  lying  back 
in  the  stern  of  my  little  boat,  watched  the  splendor  of 
the  sky  from  which  the  sun  had  gone  a  little  before. 

The  day  had  died  most  gloriously.  The  "  sword  of  the 
sun,"  that  had  lain  across  the  forest,  was  withdrawn  and 
sheathed.  There  was  a  stillness  on  land  and  water  and 
in  the  sky  that  seemed  like  the  presence  of  an  invisible 
majesty.  Eastward,  the  lofty  pine-trees  rested  their  green 
tops  in  an  atmosphere  whose  massive  blue  seemed  to  sus- 
tain and  support  them.  Westward,  the  rosy  tints  along 
the  horizon  deepened  into  crimson  around  the  base  of  the 
St.  Regis,  and  faded  into  black  toward  the  north. 

No  sign  of  life,  human  or  inhuman,  was  any  where  visi- 
ble or  audible,  except  within  the  little  boat  where  we  two 
floated ;  and  peace,  that  peace  that  reigns  where  no  man 
is — that  peace  that  never  dwells  in  the  abodes  of  men — 
here  held  silent  and  omnipotent  sway. 

But  a  change  was  coming.  The  first  premonition  of  it 
was  a  sound  in  the  tree-tops,  that  sighing,  soughing  of  the 
pines  which  you  have  so  often  heard.  At  all  times  and 


126  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

places  it  is  a  strange  and  a  melancholy  sound,  but  no- 
where so  much  so  as  in  the  deep  forest.  It  is  at  first  a 
heavy,  distant  breath,  like  the  deep  respiration,  or  rather 
the  expiration  of  many  weary  men — nay,  rather  of  wom- 
en, for  it  is  gentle  and  low.  But  it  rises  into  the  sound 
of  a  great  grief,  the  utterance  of  innumerable  sighs ;  and 
now  sobs  interrupt  it,  and  low  wails  of  single  sorrow  that 
have  no  comparison  with  other  woe,  and  that  will  not  be 
appeased  by  any  sympathies.  Just  such  a  sound,  had  you 
been  on  the  hill-side  above  Zahleh  the  night  after  the 
Druses  made  havoc  of  the  Maronites  in  that  city  of  Leb- 
anon, you  would  have  heard  floating  up  the  heights  of  the 
mountain  from  the  doomed  city :  the  sounds  of  sorrow  in 
a  thousand  homes ;  the  mournful  cry  of  the  women  and 
children ;  and  now  and  then  the  sob  of  the  dying,  gur- 
gling out  with  blood.  Just  such  a  sound  I  once  heard,  or 
thought  I  heard,  in  the  night,  when  I  lay  awake  on  the 
east  side  of  the  Rhine,  and  for  an  hour  on  the  western 
side  the  thunder  of  cannon  ceased,  and  I  could  hear  the 
agony  of  Strasburg,  beleaguered  by  the  German  hosts,  the 
low  moan  of  her  agony  ascending  above  the  spire  of  her 
holy  minster. 

But  while  I  listened  to  the  wind  in  the  pine-trees,  the 
gloom  had  increased,  and  a  ripple  came  stealing  over  the 
water.  There  was  a  flapping  of  one  of  the  lily  pads  as 
the  first  waves  struck  them  ;  and  then,  as  the  breeze 
passed  over  us,  I  threw  two  flies  on  the  black  ripple. 
There  was  a  swift  rush — a  sharp  dash  and  plunge  in  the 
water.  Both  were  struck  at  the  instant,  and  then  I  had 
work  before  me  that  forbade  my  listening  to  the  voices  of 
the  pines.  It  took  five  minutes  to  kill  my  fish — two  splen- 
did specimens,  weighing  each  a  little  less  than  two  pounds. 
Meantime  the  rip  had  increased,  and  the  breeze  came 


THE    LAUGH    OF    THE    LOON.  127 

fresh  and  steady.  It  was  too  dark  now  to  see  the  oppo- 
site shore,  and  the  fish  rose  at  every  cast ;  and  when  1 
had  a  half  dozen  of  the  same  sort,  and  one  that  lacked 
only  an  ounce  of  being  full  four  pounds,  we  pulled  up  the 
killeck  and  paddled  homeward  around  the  wooded  point. 
The  moon  rose,  and  the  scene  on  the  lake  now  became 
magically  beautiful.  The  mocking  laugh  of  the  loon  was 
the  only  cause  of  complaint  in  that  evening  of  splendor. 
Who  can  sit  in  the  forest  in  such  a  night,  when  earth  and 
air  are  full  of  glory — when  the  soul  of  the  veriest  block- 
head must  be  elevated,  and  when  a  man  begins  to  feel 
as  if  there  were  some  doubt  whether  he  is  even  a  little 
lower  than  the  angels  —  who,  I  say,  can  sit  in  such  a 
scene,  and  hear  that  fiendish  laugh  of  the  loon,  and  fail  to 
remember  Eden  and  the  tempter.  Did  you  ever  hear 
that  laugh  ?  If  so,  you  know  what  I  mean. 

That  mocking  laugh  was  in  my  ears  as  I  reeled  in  my 
line,  and,  lying  back  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe,  looked 
up  at  the  still  and  glorious  sky.  "Oh,  that  I  could  live 
just  here  forever,"  I  said,  "in  this  still  forest  home,  by  this 
calm  lake,  in  this  undisturbed  companionship  of  earth 
and  sky.  Oh  that  I  could  leave  the  life  of  labor  among 
men,  and  rest  serenely  here  as  my  sun  goes  down  the 
sky." 

"Ho!  ho!  ha!  ha!"  laughed  the  loon  across  the  lake, 
under  the  great  rock  of  the  old  Indian. 

Well,  the  loon  was  right ;  and  I  was,  like  a  great  many 
other  men,  mistaken  in  fancying  a  hermit's  life — or,  what 
I  rather  desired,  a  life  in  the  country  with  a  few  friends — 
as  preferable  to  life  among  crowds  of  men.  There  is  a 
certain  amount  of  truth,  however,  in  the  idea  that  man 
made  cities,  and  God  made  the  country. 

Doubtless  we  human  creatures  were  intended  to  live 


128  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

upon  the  products  of  the  soil,  and  the  animal  food  which 
our  strength  or  sagacity  would  enable  us  to  procure.  It 
was  intended  that  each  man  should,  for  himself  and  those 
dependent  on  him,  receive  from  the  soil  of  the  earth  such 
sustenance  and  clothing  as  he  could  compel  it  to  yield. 
But  we  have  invented  a  system  of  covering  miles  square 
of  ground  with  large  flat  stones,  or  piles  of  brick  and  mor- 
tar, so  as  to  forbid  the  product  of  any  article  of  nourish- 
ment, forbidding  grass  or  grain  or  flower  to  spring  up, 
since  we  need  the  space  for  our  inter-communication  with 
each  other,  in  the  ways  of  traffic  and  accumulating  wealth, 
while  we  buy  for  money,  in  what  we  call  markets,  the 
food  and  clothing  we  should  have  procured  for  ourselves 
from  our  common  mother  earth.  Doubtless  all  this  is  a 
perversion  of  the  original  designs  of  Providence.  The 
perversion  is  one  that  sprang  from  the  accumulation  of 
wealth  by  a  few,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  many,  which,  in 
time,  resulted  in  the  purchase  of  the  land  by  the  few,  and 
the  supply  of  food  in  return  for  articles  of  luxury  manu- 
factured by  artisans  who  were  not  cultivators  of  the  soil. 
But  who  would  listen  now  to  an  argument  in  favor  of  a  re- 
turn to  the  nomadic  style  of  life  ?  I  am  not  going  to  give 
you  one,  and  I  am  not  at  all  inclined  to  think  it  advisable 
for  every  one ;  but  in  a  still,  delicious  evening  like  that, 
I  might  be  pardoned  for  a  sigh  when  I  remembered  the 
workman  that  I  was,  and  bethought  me  of  the  lounger  that 
I  might  be. 

What,  man  !  Would  you  join  the  old  cant  that  "it  is 
great  to  work ;"  that  "  it  is  a  man's  duty  to  work ;"  that 
"  work  is  prayer  ;"  that  laborare  est  adorare  ?  Well,  sir, 
there  was  a  day  when  I  thought  so  too ;  but,  by  my  faith, 
I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it  now.  I  believe  I  was  made 
to  vegetate,  to  grow  and  expand,  and  do  something  for 


HERMIT    LIFE.  I2f) 

other  people,  and  a  great  deal  for  myself  and  my  own  ; 
but  not  to  work  any  harder  than  is  absolutely  consistent 
with  comfort.  I  don't  believe  in  going  to  bed  early,  nor 
always  in  rising  early — especially  in  town.  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  hardening  my  muscles,  or  making  iron  out  of  the 
flesh  God  gave  me,  by  gymnastics,  of  what  you  call  exer- 
cise. I  don't  believe  in  wasting  the  physique  which  I 
have  by  any  extraordinary  efforts  "  for  the  good  of  the 
race."  I  don't  believe  in  letting  alone  coffee  and  tobacco 
because  the  doctors  are  positive  that  they  ought  to  be 
and  are  injurious  to  the  health,  or  because  I  believe  that 
they  are  so  myself.  The  argument  of  health,  which  seeks 
to  prolong  life  by  selecting  articles  of  food  which  are 
hurtful,  and  articles  which  are  safe  and  wholesome,  is  no 
argument  to  me. 

But  where  am  I  wandering?  The  loon  was  laughing  at 
me  when  I  said  to  myself  that  I  could  be  happy  in  a  for- 
est home.  I  suppose  the  loon  meant  to  intimate  that  I 
would  be  tired  of  it  in  a  few  weeks  or  months ;  and  per- 
haps it  was  so. 

As  I  sat  that  night  on  the  piazza,  of  Paul  Smith's  house 
and  looked  out  on  the  exceeding  beauty  of  the  moonlit 
lake,  and  heard  again  and  again  that  laugh  across  the 
water,  I  began  to  recall  the  histories  of  hermits  who  had 
lived  and  died  in  forest  and  wilderness,  and  then  Turner 
or  some  one  told  me  the  story  of  Follansbee,  after  whom 
the  pond  was  named ;  and  this,  in  fact,  was  a  story  of 
hermit  life,  somewhat  exaggerated  in  the  repetitions  it  has 
undergone.  But  when  that  story  was  told,  and  another 
and  another,  I  sat  alone  ;  and  my  thoughts  went  wander- 
ing over  the  distant  hills  to  the  abodes  of  the  hermits  of 
ancient  times,  and  then  I  recalled  a  story  of  one  of  them, 
and  told  it  to  my  listeners  —  a  story  of  the  old  faith. 

I 


130  I   GO   A- FISHING. 

Laugh  at  it  as  we  will,  deride  it  as  we  may,  the  ages 
that  we  call  dark  were  ages  of  faith  in  something  that 
may  well  contrast  with  this  cold,  utilitarian  age  of  ours. 
And  when  we  read  or  hear  the  life -histories  of  the  men 
of  those  centuries,  we  learn  that  men  could  live  and 
die  for  a  faith,  as  no  man  in  this  age  knows  how.  I  say, 
they  were  men  in  those  ages.  We  may  well  shrink  in  the 
comparison  of  ourselves  with  them.  We  may  well  hide 
our  stories  of  sacrifice  when  we  read  theirs.  What  if  they 
were  ignorant,  what  if  they  were  superstitious  ?  What  if 
they  did  waste  treasures  untold  and  lives  uncounted  in 
vain  battle  for  a  block  of  wood  they  called  a  cross,  and 
an  empty  cave  they  called  Christ's  Sepulchre  ?  What  if 
all  this  was  folly  ?  Yet,  oh  my  friend,  I  beseech  you  to 
take  a  thousand  of  those  men  standing  before  the  walls 
of  Jerusalem,  with  closed  helmets,  and  hands  griped  firm 
on  sword  or  battle-axe,  while  through  their  lips  comes 
the  stern  cry  of  destiny,  "  God  wills  it" — Deus  vult.  I 
say,  compare  them  with  a  thousand  men  of  our  own  city, 
clamorous  around  our  City  Hall  for  a  street  to  be  opened 
through  a  grave-yard,  an  old  resting-place  of  the  beloved 
dead  of  the  last  century,  or  any  other  barbarianism  of 
the  age  in  which  you  and  I  live.  Do  this,  and  then  tell 
me,  if  you  dare,  that  the  men  of  the  Middle  Ages  were  less 
noble  than  we.  A  thousand  years  hence,  when  the  world 
shall  have  advanced  to  another  standing-place  whence 
to  look  back  on  these  centuries,  the  men  of  the  world  will 
think  this  nineteenth  century  blacker  than  night,  com- 
pared with  their  notions  of  what  constitutes  light ;  and 
yet,  measured  by  standards  in  the  hands  of  the  immor- 
tals, it  may  be  that  we  shall  be  found  as  light  as  they,  and 
the  ages  gone  by  will  not  be  so  profoundly  gloomy. 
I  was  going  to  tell  that  story  of  the  old  time,  but  on  re- 


THE    ECHO.  131 

flection  this  is  neither  the  time  nor  place  for  it ;  and  so, 
though  I  did  remember  and  relate  it,  sitting  on  the  piazza 
in  the  moonlight,  I  will  spare  you  the  recital. 

There  is  an  echo  across  the  lake  which  is  more  beauti- 
ful in  its  effect  than  any  thing  I  remember  to  have  heard. 
The  distance  is  nearly  a  mile.  The  shore  opposite  is 
densely  wooded.  This  forest  returns  as  perfect  waves  of 
sound  as  if  it  were  a  wall  of  rock.  The  distance  over 
and  back  requires  about  ten  seconds,  and  hence  a  long 
bugle  note,  or  a  succession  of  notes  on  the  horn,  such  as 
the  opening  bar  of  "  Anacreon  in  Heaven,"  or  "  The  Star- 
Spangled  Banner,"  may  be  given  on  the  piazza.,  and  a 
few  seconds  of  silence  follow,  and  then  out  of  the  distant 
forest,  across  the  lake,  the  "notes  come  back  with  a  sweet- 
ness that  can  not  be  imagined. 

Long  before  this  I  ought  to  have  been  in  bed.  I  had 
ridden  fifty  miles,  and  then  caught  trout  till  after  dark ; 
and  yet  I  sat  till  midnight  on  the  piazza,  and  felt  no  sen- 
sation of  fatigue  as  yet.  The  return  to  the  forest  was 
like  wine  to  me. 

One  who  has  in  former  years  lived  much  in  the  woods, 
forms  a  stronger  attachment  for  that  life  than  a  man  ever 
forms  for  any  other.  The  affection  which  we  have  for 
the  companions  of  our  solitude  is  very  strong.  It  is  the 
same  principle  on  which  prisoners  have  loved  toads  and 
spiders,  or  even  inanimate  objects.  Hence,  when  I  find 
myself  in  the  woods,  the  old  sights  and  sounds  come  back 
with  such  force  that  I  can  not  tear  myself  away.  Even 
after  the  other  occupants  of  the  house  had  gone  to  their 
beds  and  were  sound  asleep  in  their  several  places,  I 
walked  down  to  the  beach,  and,  pushing  off  one  of  the 
canoe-like  boats,  paddled  away  into  the  moonlight  on  the 
water,  and  then  lay  still,  listening  to  the  old  familiar 


132  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

sounds — the  wind,  the  short  yelp  of  a  dreaming  hound  in 
some  camp,  the  rush  of  a  hungry  trout  seeking  his  food 
in  the  night-time,  and  constantly  that  laugh  of  the  loon, 
varied  now  and  then  by  his  long,  mournful  cry. 

Late  as  it  was  when  I  slept,  I  awoke  with  daybreak, 
and  paddling  one  of  the  canoe-like  boats  around  to  the 
bay  where  I  had  taken  the  trout  the  evening  before,  threw 
my  fly  and  took  a  couple  of  splendid  specimens  of  the 
Follansbee  inhabitants.  I  wanted  no  more,  and  took  no 
more,  but  again  lay  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  and  watched 
the  changes  of  the  moving  sky. 

While  I  was  thus  lying,  waiting  for  whatever  sounds  of 
the  forest  and  sky  I  might  hear,  two  large  herons  came 
wheeling  downward  around  me,  and  lit  on  the  drift-wood 
at  the  edge  of  the  tamarack  swamp  through  which  the 
Weller  brook  comes  down  to  the  lake.  Stalking  along 
from  log  to  log,  or  plunging  their  long  legs  in  the  oozy 
swamp,  they  paid  no  attention  to  my  presence,  but  occu- 
pied themselves  with  their  own  fishing  arrangements,  as 
if  the  wilderness  were  their  own. 

A  plunge  in  the  swamp  startled  them,  and  they  raised 
their  long  necks  and  looked  into  the  recesses  which  my 
eye  could  not  penetrate.  Another  plunge,  and  they  qui- 
etly resumed  their  fishing,  while  I  looked  the  more  ea- 
gerly; for  if  the  birds  were  undisturbed  by  such  a  noise, 
I  knew  that  the  maker  of  it  must  be  one  of  the  forest  in- 
habitants from  whom  they  had  nothing  to  fear.  Nor  was 
I  wrong,  for  in  a  minute  or  so  I  saw  a  bush  snake,  and 
another,  and  another,  then  a  buck  made  his  appearance, 
quietly  sauntering  along,  as  fearless  of  harm  as  the  her- 
ons. I  was  as  motionless  as  breathing  would  allow ;  he 
did  not  see  me  till  he  was  at  the  edge  of  the  lake.  Then 
indeed  he  caught  sight  of  me,  and  pausing  like  a  statue 


DEER -SHOOTING.  133 

one  instant,  he  sprang  into  the  air  and  was  away,  dash- 
ing, plunging,  hurry-scurry  through  the  swamp  as  far  as  I 
could  hear  him. 

The  Adirondack  woods  abound  in  deer.  It  is  an  easy 
matter  to  kill  a  half-dozen,  in  a  day,  and  they  frequently 
do  it  at  a  place  like  Smith's.  But  I  am  compelled  to 
say  that  some  of  the  Adirondack  hunters  would  not  be 
admitted  into  the  society  of  hunters  of  which  my  an- 
cient friend  and  ally  Black,  of  Owl  Creek  cabin,  was  the 
leader,  and  for  this  reason :  they  butcher  the  deer  here 
instead  of  shooting  them  in  a  fair  way.  Some  still-hunt- 
ing is  done,  but  the  principal  part  of  the  hunting  here 
consists  in  driving  the  deer  into  the  lakes,  and  drowning 
them  in  the  most  abominable  manner.  I  can  see  your 
flush  of  indignation,  my  old  friend,  when  you  read  this  ac- 
count of  the  way  they  treat  our  game  in  the  forests  of 
Northern  New  York,  and  so  thoroughly  was  I  disgusted 
with  it  that  I  declined  taking  any  share  in  any  of  the 
hunts.  I  could  see  it  done,  sitting  on  the  piazza,  of 
Smith's  house  ;  and  this  was  the  way  of  it. 

The  dogs  were  sent  out  with  one  of  the  hunters,  who 
crossed  the  lake  and  went  over  to  the  Upper  St.  Regis 
Lake,  putting  the  dogs  out  on  the  side  toward  the  Fol- 
lansbee.  Here  they  soon  found  the  scent  and  opened  on 
it,  and  the  music  came  to  us  across  three  miles  of  inter- 
vening forest.  As  soon  as  they  opened,  the  hunters  at 
Smith's,  three  sportsmen,  each  with  a  guide,  got  into  their 
boats  and  paddled  off  on  the  Follansbee  Pond,  taking  po- 
sitions close  under  the  shores  on  three  sides. 

An  hour  passed,  during  which  the  dogs  were  heard  at 
intervals ;  then  suddenly  one  of  the  guides  caught  sight 
of  a  black  spot  on  the  surface  of  the  pond,  moving  not 
unlike  a  loon.  It  required  a  sharp  eye  to  see  it  in  the 


134  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

rip  that  covered  the  surface,  and  no  one  but  a  hunter 
would  have  known  that  it  was  a  deer,  swimming  with  the 
tip  of  his  nose  and  half  his  head  out  of  water — or  her 
nose  and  her  head,  for  in  this  case  it  proved  to  be  a  doe. 

The  sportsman  in  the  boat  with  the  guide  who  had  first 
seen  the  game  had,  as  it  turned  out,  a  rifle  that  would 
not  go  off,  and,  after  vain  snapping,  the  guide  paddled 
swiftly  up  and  overtook  the  frightened  doe,  who,  as  soon 
as  she  saw  her  pursuer,  had  turned  for  the  shore  she  had 
left. 

The  sportsman  intercepted  her  flight,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded to  belabor  the  poor  animal's  head  with  a  paddle, 
and  force  her  under  water.  The  battle  was  by  no  means 
well  fought  on  his  side,  and  the  guide  was  obliged  con- 
stantly to  use  his  paddle  in  the  water  and  "surround"  the 
poor  frightened  doe,  who  was  steadily  nearing  the  shore 
notwithstanding  all  his  efforts. 

But  now  the  other  two  boats  came  up  and  joined  the 
fray,  and  the  murder  was  accomplished  more  artistically. 
One  guide  dashed  in  adroitly  and  seized  the  body  of  the 
doe  so  as  to  throw  her  up  in  the  water,  and  enable  him 
to  catch  her  by  the  tail.  This  was  necessary  to  prevent 
her  sinking  when  the  other  should  dispatch  her;  for  at 
certain  seasons,  and  in  certain  conditions  of  the  venison, 
the  deer  will  not  float  in  water,  but  goes  down  like  a 
stone. 

This  point  secured,  he  held  her  by  the  tail,  and  then  it 
was  easy  for  his  sportsman  to  blow  her  brains  out  with 
his  rifle. 

This,  on  my  word,  is  the  manner  in  which  nine  deer 
out  of  ten  that  are  killed,  in  the  Adirondacks  are  mur- 
dered ;  unless,  perhaps,  I  should  except  from  the  count 
those  that  are  drowned  with  the  birch  withes.  For  it  is 


A    BUCK.  135 

very  common  to  save  the  gunpowder  by  catching  the  deer 
over  the  head  or  horns  with  a  long  birch  sapling  withed 
in  a  noose  at  the  end,  and  then  press  the  head  under 
water  until  absolute  drowning  is  effected.  The  blood  is 
then  let  out  by  a  quick  cut  across  the  throat. 

Contrast  this  with  our  way  of  hunting  in  old  times,  on 
the  banks  of  Owl  Creek,  or  on  the  Delaware  and  the  Sus- 
quehanna. 

How  well  I  remember  a  breezy  morning  when  the  music 
of  the  hounds  came  down  the  valley  of  the  Delaware,  from 
the  hills  above  the  great  rapids  of  the  Callicoon.  I  stood 
at  the  run  on  the  west  side  of  the  river,  a  mile  above 
Kellum's,  and  the  deer,  after  a  long  run,  came  down  di- 
rectly before  me,  on  the  opposite  shore.  But  he  saw  me 
before  he  took  the  plunge,  and  wheeling  about  went  up 
the  precipitous  bank,  whither  my  bullet — sent  at  a  long 
venture — in  vain  followed  him. 

I  leaped  into  the  canoe  that  was  lying  under  the  bushes 
near  me,  for  I  knew  that  the  buck  was  heading  down  to 
a  lower  run,  and  I  went  flying  down  the  rapids,  swift  as 
the  deer  was  going  through  the  woods  behind  the  hills. 
We  almost  met  at  the  lower  run ;  for  I  had  but  leaped 
from  my  canoe  when  he  came  out  of  the  bushy  bank  and 
took  the  water  at  a  flying  leap.  The  foam  dashed  high 
as  he  pressed  across  the  shallows,  and  then  I  shouted 
after  him  ;  and  as  he  leaped  into  the  air,  the  ball  intended 
for  his  fore-shoulder  broke  the  hind-leg  below  the  joint. 

He  turned  and  charged  up  the  shore,  first  looking  as  if 
he  would  have  annihilated  me,  and  thinking  better  of  that 
took  the  land  a  hundred  yards  below,  and,  stumbling  up 
the  bank,  fell  as  my  second  ball  from  old  swivel-breech 
went  to  the  intended  spot. 

You  will  perhaps  say  my  way  of  killing  him  was  no 


136  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

less  murder  than  the  Adirondack  drowning.  But  I  think 
otherwise,  and  so  will  any  one  who  believes  in  giving 
game  a  chance  for  life. 

A  few  words  by  way  of  practical  advice  to  Adirondack 
visitors  may  be  of  value  here,  notwithstanding  the  many 
books  in  which  more  full  information  can  be  found.  Paul 
Smith's  is  a  good  hotel,  for  families  as  well  as  sportsmen. 
Ladies  can  enjoy  a  stay  there,  and  can  go  a-fishing  when 
they  please. 

The  boats  are  constructed  for  the  lake  country.  They 
are  built  of  very  thin  stuff,  and  are  so  light  that  one  man 
easily  takes  one  on  his  back  and  walks  off,  up  hill  and 
down,  for  a  half  or  three  quarters  of  a  mile  without  fatigue. 
Each  boat  will  hold  two  persons  comfortably,  and  three, 
or  even  four,  if  necessary. 

Having  entered  the  forest  at  Paul  Smith's,  you  will  per- 
haps desire  to  pursue  the  usual  plan  of  some  Adirondack 
visitors  and  camp  out  in  the  woods  for  a  while.  The  mo- 
dus operandi  is  this  : 

Your  party  will  require  guides  and  boats  according  to 
their  number  and  character.  Ladies,  who  will  find  it  cap- 
ital fun  to  try  forest  life,  need  more  guides  than  gentle- 
men ;  and  in  fact,  here  as  elsewhere,  the  only  direction 
for  traveling  with  ladies  is  to  provide  them  with  abundant 
physical  strength  in  the  way  of  guides  and  assistants.  A 
lady  can  travel  in  any  part  of  the  known  world  with  her 
husband  or  brother,  if  the  latter  will  only  take  care  that 
she  has  ample  attendance,  easy  horses  or  methods  of  car- 
riage, and  is  never  under  any  circumstances  for  one  instant 
allowed  to  over-fatigue  herself. 

Thus,  if  you  have  ladies,  make  your  day's  journeys 
shorter  by  half.  Make  long  detours  by  water,  if  thereby 
you  can  avoid  fatiguing  tramps  through  the  forest.  But 


GOING    INTO   CAMP.  137 

let  the  ladies  be  assured  they  can  hunt  and  fish  in  the 
Adirondacks  quite  as  well  as  gentlemen  ;  and  if  they  will, 
they  can  shoot  deer  as  often  as  their  husbands  (the  guide 
holding  the  animal  as  aforesaid). 

At  Smith's,  you  will  select  your  guides  and  purchase 
outfit  and  provisions.  Smith  has  every  requisite  and  lux- 
ury on  hand.  The  guides  are  in  general  a  fine  set  of 
good -hearted,  simple-minded,  noble  fellows;  excellent 
company  in  the  forest,  well  acquainted  with  its  sights  and 
sounds,  its  language,  that  to  you  may  be  unintelligible, 
but  to  them  is  like  English  to  an  Englishman,  they  can 
translate  to  you  a  thousand  written  tales  on  wood  and 
water,  on  hill  and  rock.  Not  unsusceptible  to  poetry, 
they  will  appreciate  the  beauty  of  that  language,  even 
more  keenly  than  you,  until  you  learn  their  simplicity  of 
thought.  "  Learn  simplicity,"  said  I  ?  well,  it  may  per- 
haps be  acquired. 


VIII. 

THE  ST.  REGIS  WATERS  NOW. 

MY  latest  visit  to  the  St.  Regis  waters  was  in  the  spring 
of  1872.  It  was  early  in  May,  the  fifth  or  the  sixth,  when 
Dupont  and  I  drove  up  to  the  door  at  Paul  Smith's,  now 
a  large  hotel  capable  of  accommodating  a  hundred  and 
fifty  guests.  Thus  early  in  the  season  there  were  no 
sportsmen  in  the  house,  and  we  had  it  all  at  our  service. 
It  was  so  pleasant  that,  with  the  exception  of  a  week  in 
town,  given  to  business,  I  remained  there  until  the  first  of 
July.  Reasons  touching  the  state  of  my  health  made  it 
desirable  for  me  to  spend  all  the  days,  rainy  or  sunny,  in 
the  open  air,  and  I  took  more  or  less  fish  every  day,  ex- 
cepting Sundays. 

We  had  passed  the  night  at  Franklin  Falls,  and  reached 
Smith's  a  little  before  noon.  We  had  no  unpacking  to 
do,  for  our  baggage  was  slender.  I  looked  out  of  my  bed- 
room window  at  Peter's  Rock  across  the  lake,  and  won- 
dered whether  trout  would  still  rise  to  a  fly  over  there  as 
in  other  years.  Descending  to  the  front  piazza  with  our 
Norris  rods  in  hand,  we  found  a  small  assembly  of  guides 
waiting  to  greet  us.  When  they  saw  the  fly  rods  they 
opened  their  eyes  and  mouths. 

"  You  don't  think  of  fly-fishing  at  this  season,  do  you  ?" 

"Why  not?" 

"  Why,  the  trout  never  rise  to  a  fly  here  till  the  first  of 
June." 


JOHN    AND    FRANK.  139 

"  Nonsense  ;  you  don't  know  any  thing  about  it." 

Unruffled  by  the  short  reply,  which  certainly  seemed 
sufficiently  impertinent  from  a  couple  of  city  sportsmen 
to  a  group  of  Adirondack  guides,  John  M'Laughlin  ap- 
pealed earnestly  to  Frank  Hobart,  saying,  "  Now,  Frank, 
what  do  you  say,  will  trout  rise  to  a  fly  in  the  St.  Regis 
waters  before  the  last  of  May  ?" 

"  No,  they  won't,"  was  Frank's  categorical  answer. 

"  Do  they  ever  rise  nowadays  at  Peter's  Rock  ?"  I 
asked. 

"  Yes,  in  the  season,  plenty  of  them." 

"  Then  just  get  your  boats  on  the  water,  and  we'll  show 
you  whether  they  will  rise  as  early  as  this." 

In  ten  minutes  or  less  we  were  standing  on  the  rock, 
and  at  the  second  or  third  cast  a  half-pound  fish  came 
up  and  took  the  bobber  with  a  rush,  as  if  he  wanted  it.  I 
had  scarcely  struck  him  when  Dupont  had  a  larger  one 
on  his  tail  fly.  John  looked  at  Frank  and  said  nothing. 
Another  and  another  rose  and  were  landed,  but  as  yet 
no  large  fish.  At  length,  casting  along  the  edge  of  the 
rock,  I  struck  a  full-pound  trout,  and  he  was  one  of  the 
strongest  fish  of  his  size  that  I  have  ever  seen.  When  he 
was  landed,  John  quietly  remarked  : 

"Well,  Frank,  I'm  beat,  and  I  give  it  up — don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  give  it  up,"  said  Frank  quietly,  and  walked 
down  the  rock  to  hand  Dupont  his  landing-net  for  another 
full-pound  fish. 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  John,  in  a  reflecting,  thought- 
ful tone,  "  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is.  We  have  a  way  of  do- 
ing things  always  in  the  same  way,  and  we  begin  every 
spring  with  trolling  for  lake  trout,  and  we  think  there's  no 
use  fly-fishing  till  the  trolling  season  is  well  over  ;  and 
the  fact  is,  nobody  ever  thought  of  throwing  a  fly  here  as 


140  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

early  as  this,  and  consequently  we've  been  thinking  al- 
ways that  trout  wouldn't  rise  to  a  fly  till  June.  Live  and 
learn !" 

John,  however,  was  right  to  this  extent,  that  until  the 
trout  get  to  feeding  on  flies  they  do  not  rise  so  freely  as 
later  in  the  season,  and  large  fish  seldom  rise  in  the  early 
spring ;  and  they  do  not  congregate  at  the  mouths  of 
brooks,  but  seem  to  be  scattered  and  more  difficult  to 
find  in  large  lakes  until  the  water  grows  warmer.  In  a 
week's  fishing,  among  several  hundred  trout  that  we  took, 
none  were  very  much  over  a  pound  in  weight,  and  the 
major  portion  were  smaller  fish.  We  threw  back  many 
quarter-pound  fish,  reserving  only  a  few  of  the  small  ones, 
because  I  esteem  them  for  table  use  as  vastly  better  than 
larger  ones. 

We  whiled  away  the  afternoon  on  the  rock  and  on  Isl- 
and Point  across  the  lake  near  the  house.  In  the  bay,  off 
the  mouth  of  the  swamp  brook,  where  in  August  in  old 
times  I  have  killed  many  a  three-pounder,  I  could  not  get 
a  rise.  The  trout  approach  the  cold  brooks  later  in  the 
season,  when  the  lake  water  begins  to  get  warm.  I  note 
this  fact,  that  nearly  every  trout  which  I  took  on  this  aft- 
ernoon rose  to  a  bright  green  fly  unlike  any  American  in- 
sect that  I  know  of,  and  which  I  used  because  it  happened 
to  be  on  an  old  leader  that  had  never  been  dismantled 
since  I  killed  trout  with  it  on  Loch  Katrine.  There  were 
no  flies  on  the  water,  and  it  was  so  cold  that  night  that 
the  ice  froze  like  a  pane  of  glass  over  small  ponds. 

We  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  evening,  and  I  told  Dupont 
stories  of  the  old  times  in  those  regions,  which  seem  to 
have  passed  out  of  the  memory  of  the  present  generation. 

And  then  we  talked  of  far  lands  where  we  two  had 
wandered  together — for  it  was  only  a  little  more  than 


OSGOOD    RAPIDS.  141 

two  years  since  Dupont  and  I  had  heard  the  roar  of  the 
Nile  bursting  through  the  barriers  of  Syene;  and  then 
we  grew  sleepy,  though  it  was  not  yet  midnight,  and  then 
we  went  to  our  rooms  and  slept.  But  once  before  I  slept 
I  heard  that  mocking  laugh  of  the  loon,  and  then  the  wind 
rose  among  the  pine-trees  by  the  house,  and  I  fell  asleep 
listening  to  the  strange  sound,  full  of  memories. 

Monday  morning  was  bright  and  clear — too  clear  for 
fly-fishing ;  but  we  held  an  early  consultation,  and  John 
and  Frank  agreed  that,  since  trout  would  rise  to  a  fly  ear- 
ly in  May,  notwithstanding  local  traditions  to  the  contra- 
ry, there  was  no  place  in  which  they  were  more  likely  to 
be  found  than  the  Osgood  Rapids.  So  we  went  to  the 
Osgood  Rapids.  As  a  general  rule,  all  the  streams  in 
the  Adirondack  region  are  sluggish  for  long  distances, 
and  fall  over  short,  rocky  rapids  here  and  there.  The 
whole  country  is  a  level,  with  innumerable  lakes  and 
ponds  connecting  with  one  another  by  these  streams. 
The  Osgood,  a  small  lake,  three  fourths  of  a  mile  from 
Smith's  house,  receives  the  water  from  Jones  Pond,  and 
discharges  a  stream,  tolerably  strong  in  high  water,  into 
Meacham  Lake,  some  miles  distant. 

Boats  for  fishing  the  Osgood  must  be  carried  from 
Smith's,  and  to  one  who  has  not  seen  it  the  procession  of 
a  party  crossing  "  a  carry"  is  very  droll.  The  guides  lift 
the  boats,  upside  down,  on  their  backs,  supported  by  a 
yoke  which  fits  the  shoulders,  and  walk  off  as  comfortably 
as  a  man  with  a  carpet-bag.  You  can  see  the  boats,  but 
only  the  legs  of  the  guides.  They  seem  to  be  boats  walk- 
ing— a  row  of  elongated  terrapins ;  and  when  two  or  three 
move  off  in  a  line  the  scene  is  odd  and  amusing.  It  is  no 
small  work  to  carry  a  boat  three  quarters  of  a  mile,  and 
many  of  the  carries  in  this  country  are  much  longer. 


142  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

We  made  a  few  casts  on  the  lake,  and  Dupont  took  a 
couple  of  fish — one  a  full  pound,  and  the  other  three 
quarters — from  underneath  an  old  log  near  the  shore. 
Then  we  crossed  the  lake,  and  went  down  the  river  two 
miles  or  so,  lifting  the  boats  over  one  ruined  bridge,  and 
pausing  here  and  there  at  the  mouths  of  cold  brooks  to 
try  if  the  trout  would  rise.  But  we  did  not  find  any  till 
we  reached  the  head  of  the  rapids,  where  we  went  ashore, 
put  on  our  wading-trousers,  and,  standing  at  the  top  of 
the  rocky  fall,  cast  over  the  swift  water.  Now  here  was 
an  interesting  fact,  which  I  beg  you,  who  are  concerned  to 
know  the  habits  of  trout,  to  consider.  The  rapids  were 
about  three  hundred  feet  in  length.  The  water  was  deep 
at  top  and  foot.  But  no  trout  were  to  be  found  above  or 
below  the  swift  water.  It  was  only  in  the  rushing  current 
that  they  were  lying,  and  here  they  were  innumerable. 
Casting  over  the  swift  water,  and  drawing  the  flies  rapid- 
ly up  against  or  across  it,  would  bring  up  the  fish  in 
plenty.  There  were  few  large  fish.  None  that  we  got 
that  day  went  over  a  pound,  and  not  many  over  a  half. 
It  made  little  difference  what  flies  we  used.  They  rose 
to  any  thing,  and  struck  sharply.  In  an  hour  or  two  we 
had  killed  some  fifty  or  sixty  fish,  and  the  sun  was  now 
overhead,  hot  and  glaring,  and  we  were  getting  only  small 
trout.  So  we  stopped  our  work  and  went  down  stream  to 
investigate  other  places  in  the  deep  shadows  of  the  pine 
groves. 

You  never  saw  a  stream  more  thoroughly  fit  for  trout 
than  this  was,  full  of  deep,  dark  holes  under  rocks  and 
brush;  but  there  were  no  trout  in  it  below  the  rapid.  We 
passed  some  hours  in  the  vain  search  for  them,  and  at 
length  came  back  to  the  head  of  the  rapids  and  threw 
ourselves  down  on  the  bank,  weary  and  exhausted  with 


OSGOOD    RAPIDS.  143 

some  miles  of  wading  and  struggling  through  swamps  and 
underbrush. 

The  sun  had  gone  westward,  and  the  shadows  of  the 
pines  were  thrown  across  the  stream.  Wild  pigeons  were 
abundant  in  the  trees.  Now  and  then  a  flight  of  duck 
went  over  us.  The  wind  was  gentle,  but  it  roared  in  the 
pine-trees  as  if  a  heavy  surf  were  breaking  just  beyond 
the  hill.  We  took  our  places  again  on  the  rapid,  Dupont 
on  one  rock  in  mid-stream,  with  Frank  by  his  side,  myself 
on  another  rock  with  John.  It  would  seem  that  the  num- 
ber of  fish  had  been  increased,  instead  of  diminished,  by 
our  morning's  work.  They  rose  at  every  cast,  and  we 
landed  them  at  our  ease.  We  threw  back  countless  small 
fish  which  we  did  not  care  to  take  out,  and  finished  the 
day's  sport  with  a  hundred  and  fifteen  trout  to  take  home 
for  the  supply  of  the  hotel.  It  is  a  comfort  to  take  fish 
where  they  are  sure  to  be  useful  for  food,  and  it  is  a  sub- 
ject of  profound  regret  that  many  persons  go  into  the 
woods  and  camp,  and,  having  only  a  few  mouths  to  sup- 
ply, kill  large  numbers  of  trout  which  are  not  eaten,  but 
thrown  away.  No  sportsman  does  this.  It  is  only  the 
inexperienced  and  thoughtless  who  find  pleasure  in  kill- 
ing fish  for  the  mere  sake  of  killing  them.  I  have  often 
amused  myself,  after  taking  all  the  fish  that  I  needed  for 
food,  by  breaking  off  the  point  of  a  fly-hook  and  casting 
the  harmless  deception  to  call  up  the  trout,  and  watch 
their  swift  rush  and  splendid  plunges.  But  there  is  no 
sport  in  killing  fish  unless  some  one  will  eat  them. 

We  gathered  our  traps  together — the  rods,  the  wading- 
trousers  and  shoes,  the  landing-nets  and  the  fish — and 
started  homeward.  Up  the  river,  rowing  easily  till  we 
lifted  over  the  old  bridge,  then  up  the  narrow,  winding 
stream,  with  the  guide  kneeling  in  the  bow  of  the  boat, 


144  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

and  poling  her  against  the  current  with  the  oar,  or  drag- 
ging by  the  bushes,  which  almost  met  overhead.  Out 
again  into  the  broader  river,  and  then  into  the  open  lake 
— calm  and  still,  a  perfect  mirror — and  across  it  to  the 
foot  of  the  carry,  and  then  over  the  hills  through  the  for- 
est to  our  home. 

Whatsoever  else  has  changed,  the  old  echo  of  years 
ago  is  the  same  at  this  spot.  It  seems  to  me  sometimes 
as  if  it  were  from  another  world  that  these  responses  come 
in  the  darkness — so  long  is  the  interval,  and  so  pure  and 
soft  the  answer  even  to  a  harsh  and  heavy  call.  But, 
alas  !  there  are  no  answers  audible  to  the  waking  ears  out 
of  the  earthly  distances  toward  which  we  send  our  most 
longing  calls. 

I  returned,  as  I  have  said,  to  the  city,  and  Dupont  aban- 
doned me.  I  went  back  to  the  St.  Regis  a  week  later 
with  an  artist  friend,  the  best  living  painter  of  fish,  and 
he  remained  a  few  days,  and  then  I  had  the  month  of 
June  to  myself  alone.  The  weather  came  on  suddenly 
hot.  It  was  welcome,  for  the  trout  which  in  the  early 
spring  had  been  scattered  about  the  lakes,  loving  cool 
water,  began  to  gather  around  the  mouths  of  the  cold 
brooks,  and  we  found  them  more  easily.  A  leaf  from 
my  memoranda  will  give  an  idea  of  how  the  time  for  one 
week  was  employed. 

Monday,  June  \vth.  —  John  M'Laughlin  and  Frank 
Hobart  guides ;  morning  on  the  Lower  St.  Regis,  in  sight 
of  the  house  all  the  time ;  a  dozen  fish,  two  or  three  a 
pound  each ;  after  luncheon  to  Barnum  Lake ;  carry  three 
fourths  of  a  mile  to  Osgood ;  cross  the  upper  end  of  Os- 
good,  and  carry  again  a  mile  to  Barnum;  no  fish  till  just 
at  dusk,  when  I  got  half  a  dozen,  one  only  going  over  a 
pound  and  a  half. 


OSGOOD    RIVER.  145 

Tuesday,  \\th. — Osgood  Rapids;  plenty  of  small  fish, 
but  none  large;  gave  up  fishing,  and  lounged  on  the 
rocks  all  day. 

Wednesday,  1 2th.  —  Morning  on  Lower  St.  Regis;  a 
half-dozen  good  fish;  afternoon  on  Barnum;  a  gale  of 
wind  blowing  and  a  heavy  sea ;  six  fish,  one  a  pound  and 
three  quarters. 

Thursday,  i^th.  —  Explored  Deer  Pond;  went  down 
the  St.  Regis  outlet  to  the  mill,  and  carried  in  a  half 
mile  to  the  pond;  heavy  rain  pouring  all  day;  a  dozen 
good  trout;  home  to  dinner  at  six.  After  dinner  tried  the 
old  place  a  hundred  rods  from  Smith's  house  at  the 
mouth  of  Weller  brook;  took  six  fish  about  a  pound 
each. 

Friday,  i^th. — Osgood  all  day  long;  about  forty  good 
fish  and  many  smaller. 

Saturday,  \$th. — Drove  down  the  wood  road  toward 
Meacham  seven  miles ;  left  the  horse  standing  and  went 
into  Osgood  River,  fishing  it,  wading,  about  two  miles; 
ninety  fine  fish,  all  good  size,  many  over  a  pound;  driv- 
ing home,  as  we  crossed  the  inlet  of  Barnum,  waded  into 
the  shoal  water  and  cast  over  the  lily  pads,  taking  three 
pound  fish. 

That  last  day  of  the  week  is  worthy  somewhat  extend- 
ed notice,  since  thereby  I  may  give  to  the  inexperienced 
reader  some  instruction  in  river-fishing.  The  Osgood 
River,  coming  out  of  Osgood  Pond,  runs  some  three  miles 
through  swamps  a  heavy,  sluggish  flow,  receiving  occa- 
sionally the  water  of  a  cold  brook.  Then  it  plunges 
down  a  short  rocky  rapid,  of  which  I  have  before  spoken 
in  this  volume,  flows  swiftly  around  rocks  and  through 
dense  green  woods  for  a  mile  or  so,  then  pursues  a  wind- 
ing course,  now  slow  and  deep,  now  swift  over  gravelly 

K 


146  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

bottom,  for  three  or  four  miles,  until  it  emerges  from  the 
forest  and  runs  through  the  Burnt  Ground.  This  is  a 
large  tract  of  sandy  and  rolling  country  from  which  all 
forest  has  disappeared,  probably  because  of  a  fire.  .The 
river,  in  a  deep  ravine,  is  bordered  by  thick  brush,  and  for 
two  miles  winds  in  a  swift  current  between  hilly  sides,  so 
that  the  angler  who  commences  to  whip  the  stream  near 
Mountain  Pond  can  come  out  after  four  or  five  hours' 
work  within  a  mile  of  his  starting-point. 

I  drove  over  from  Smith's  with  John  and  Frank,  and, 
leaving  the  wagon  at  a  convenient  point,  went  into  the 
river  in  the  morning,  not  far  below  Mountain  Pond. 

Although  there  is  vastly  more  pleasure  to  the  experi- 
enced angler  in  using  a  seven-ounce  rod,  I  recommend  for 
work  in  such  a  river,  among  underbrush  whose  branches 
and  roots  often  extend  into  the  water,  a  somewhat  heav- 
ier weapon.  I  used  a  rod  made  of  ash,  weighing  nine  or 
ten  ounces,  which  I  call  a  black-bass  rod.  It  served  its 
purpose  well  when  heavy  fish  went  under  the  masses  of 
overhanging  alder,  or  dived  into  bunches  of  roots,  from 
which  only  patience  and  a  steady  pressure  could  extract 
them. 

John  took  a  stout  bait-rod  and  deceived  the  trout  with 
the  tail  of  a  red-fin  on  a  strong  hook.  I  used  two  flies, 
on  the  tail  a  dark  brown,  almost  black  fly,  and  above  a 
Montreal  claret  and  gray. 

I  said  I  went  into  the  river.  I  mean  what  I  say.  In 
the  early  season  I  am  accustomed  to  wear  English  wad- 
ing-stockings,  with  heavy  brogans  over  them.  When  the 
warm  weather  advances  I  eschew  all  rubber  coverings. 
The  objection  to  India-rubber  clothing  is  chiefly  that  it 
confines  the  ordinary  insensible  perspiration  and  makes 
it  decidedly  sensible.  In  cool  weather  it  is  less  unpleas- 


DOWN    THE    RIVER.  147 

ant,  but  in  warm  weather  I  find  it  intolerable,  and  wade 
without  attempting  to  keep  dry. 

For  a  mile  or  so  I  think  the  fly  took  two  trout  to  one 
for  the  bait.  They  rose  mostly  to  the  brown  tail  fly. 
But  we  got  no  large  fish.  The  river  was  deep  and  strong. 
Heavy  rains  had  swollen  it,  and  an  occasional  plunge 
into  a  deep  hole  warned  me  to  be  cautious  if  I  did  not 
care  to  swim. 

At  length  we  approached  a  spot  where  the  river  nar- 
rowed, and  ran  swift  and  strong  under  a  log  which  crossed 
it  three  feet  above  the  surface.  On  either  side  the  bank 
was  cut  under  by  the  current. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  John,  "  whether  my  big  fish  is  in  his 
hole  under  that  bank." 

"  Do  you  keep  one  there  ?" 

"  I  left  one  there  last  year.  I  lifted  him  out  twice  and 
lost  him." 

"  Try  him  again  now,  and  I'll  look  on." 

So  John  let  his  red-fin  tail  swing  down  the  current, 
and,  drawing  it  toward  the  bank,  dragged  it  swiftly  up 
under  the  crossing  log.  The  trout  lay  in  his  hole  and 
saw  it,  and  made  a  bold  dash  at  it. 

"  I've  got  him,"  said  John,  as  he  swung  him  out,  but 
down  he  went  again  into  the  swift  current. 

"  He's  gone  back  to  the  same  hole,"  said  John,  and 
repeated  the  manoeuvre.  The  result  was  precisely  the 
same,  and  again  he  lifted  him  out,  dragged  him  ten  feet 
in  the  rushing  rapid,  and  lost  him.  "  I'll  have  him  yet," 
said  the  determined  guide ;  and  at  him  he  went  again,  and 
again  hooked  and  lost  him. 

Mark  the  fact  that  this  trout  had  been  severely  hooked 
three  times,  and  as  many  times  repeated  his  rush  at  the 
bait;  for  on  the  fourth  attempt  John  landed  him,  a  pound- 


148  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

and-a-quarter  fish,  with  his  mouth  badly  torn  by  the  pre- 
vious failures. 

Whether  fish  suffer  pain  from  wounds  is  a  question 
much  discussed  among  anglers.  I  am  convinced  that 
they  do  not.  My  opinion  is  based  on  many  facts  like 
this  which  I  have  related.  I  once  lost  two  hooks  in  suc- 
cession, fishing  with  bait  in  a  deep  hole,  under  closely 
hanging  bushes,  where  I  could  not  use  a  fly.  Finding 
that  my  snells  were  not  to  be  trusted,  I  knotted  a  hook 
on  the  line,  tried  the  third  time,  and  landed  a  fine  trout 
from  whose  mouth  I  took  the  two  hooks  which  I  had 
lost.  I  once  took  a  small  trout  on  a  fly,  who  rose  sharp- 
ly and  struck  with  vigor,  whose  side  had  within  a  few 
hours  been  so  badly  torn  by  another  fish,  or  by  a  hook, 
that  the  skin  was  gone  from  the  belly  to  the  dorsal  fin 
a  full  inch  wide,  leaving  the  red  flesh  exposed.  I  have 
seen  a  skate,  weighing  more  than  fifty  pounds,  caught  on 
a  bait-hook  in  Fisher's  Island  Sound,  drawn  up  to  the 
side  of  the  boat  and  his  throat  cut  across  with  a  gash  in- 
tended to  be  and  supposed  to  be  sufficiently  deep  to  kill 
him.  The  same  skate  was  caught  and  brought  out  on 
the  same  hook  within  thirty  minutes  afterward.  In- 
stances might  be  multiplied  from  my  own  experience. 
Other  anglers  could  furnish  many  more.  From  such  ob- 
servations I  have  become  convinced  that  wounds  do  not 
give  to  fish  that  sensation  which  we  call  pain. 

The  angler  who  has  hooked  a  fish  with  bait  and  lost 
him,  should  not  hesitate  to  throw  again  into  the  same 
spot ;  for,  unless  the  fish  has  been  frightened  by  seeing 
the  fisherman,  he  will  take  the  bait  as  readily  the  second 
time,  and  often  with  more  vigor,  as  if  angry  at  its  hav- 
ing escaped  him.  This  is  especially  true  of  pike  and 
pickerel.  I  once  took  a  pike  in  Glen  Falloch,  at  the 


EIGHT    FROM    ONE    HOLE.  149 

head  of  Loch  Lomond,  who  struck  a  spoon  four  times 
before  I  landed  him,  and  each  time  was  badly  torn  by 
the  hooks. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  generally  true  that  if  a 
trout  is  pricked  by  a  fly-hook  he  will  not  rise  to  it  again. 
This  is,  perhaps,  owing  to  the  simple  fact  that  he  has  found 
no  taste  of  flesh  on  the  hook.  In  one  single  instance  in 
my  experience  I  have  known  an  exception  to  this  rule. 
Casting  on  a  lake  in  the  Franconia  Mountains,  I  pricked 
a  two-pound  trout,  and  pricked  him  badly.  The  water 
was  clear,  and  I  saw  him  rush  off,  turn,  and,  as  my  fly 
again  fell  in  the  same  spot,  go  at  it  with  a  fierce  dart,  and 
I  landed  him.  I  speak,  of  course,  of  trout  as  I  have  known 
them.  In  all  that  I  say  of  trout-fishing,  I  beg  my  reader 
to  bear  in  mind,  what  I  have  elsewhere  tried  to  make 
plain,  that  the  habits  of  trout  vary  with  their  local  habita- 
tions, and  there  are  many  waters  full  of  them  of  which  I 
know  nothing,  and  where  their  customs  may  be  quite  dif- 
ferent from  those  which  I  have  learned. 

When  John  had  landed  his  old  friend,  I  went  down  to 
the  log  and  threw  my  flies  below  it.  There  was  a  project- 
ing point  of  the  bank  some  thirty  feet  down  stream,  under 
which  the  body  of  the  current  was  flowing.  As  the  tail 
fly  came  up,  and  swung  across  this  current  within  a  foot 
of  the  bank,  I  had  a  fine  strike,  and  drew  out  into  the 
open  river  a  good  pound  trout.  He  made  fierce  strug- 
gles, but  I  killed  him  in  two  minutes,  and  struck  another 
at  the  same  spot.  In  fifteen  minutes  I  had  taken  eight 
trout  from  that  hole,  averaging  a  pound  each,  every  one 
striking  the  fly  at  the  same  point  to  an  inch,  and  then  I 
could  not  raise  another  fin. 

"  Try  your  bait  there,  John." 

Down  went  the  red-fin  tail  on  the  current,  and  into  the 


150  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

hole.  No  trout  moved  while  it  went  down ;  but  the  in- 
stant it  was  drawn  up  the  water  boiled  as  a  good  fish 
struck  it,  and  then  John  took  three  more,  making  twelve 
that  we  had  from  that  one  hole,  and  all  good  fish. 

A  little  farther  down  the  river,  in  the  afternoon,  as  I 
was  slowly  going  down  the  middle  of  the  stream,  casting 
some  thirty  feet  of  line  before  me,  I  saw  a  sudden  com- 
motion a  hundred  feet  ahead,  and  three  or  four  small  fish, 
red-fins  or  shiners,  springing  into  the  air.  This  on  river 
or  lake  is  very  fair  evidence  that  a  large  trout  is  chasing 
them.  I  plunged  rapidly  forward  ;  and,  as  the  brush  for- 
tunately opened  just  here  so  as  to  give  me  a  longer  back 
cast,  I  rapidly  increased  my  length  of  line  until,  at  sixty 
or  seventy  feet  distance,  my  tail  fly  fell  exactly  where  the 
shiners  had  gone  out  of  water.  I  was  by  no  means  sure 
that  a  trout  who  was  feeding  on  fish  would  rise  to  a  fly ; 
but  this  fellow  was  making  a  large  dinner,  and  mixed  his 
dishes.  The  second  or  third  cast  brought  him  up.  What 
a  magnificent  roll  and  plunge  that  was,  as  he  turned  his 
peach-and-gold  side  up  to  my  satisfied  vision.  Satisfied, 
because  at  the  same  instant  I  felt  his  heavy  stroke  on  the 
Montreal  fly,  and  knew  by  the  short,  sharp  click  which 
I  felt,  but  can  not  describe,  that  he  was  firmly  hooked. 
He  seemed  to  know  it  also,  for  he  went  down  stream  at  a 
tearing  rate.  The  sound  of  the  reel  was  whizzing  instead 
of  whirring.  I  had  but  fifty  yards  of  line  on  my  reel, 
and  this  fellow  had  taken  forty,  and  I  was  floundering 
down  among  rocks  and  rapids  after  him,  when  he  turned 
and  came  up  stream.  I  never  use  a  multiplying  reel  for 
trout.  The  occasion  does  not  happen  once  a  year  with 
me  when  I  desire  one,  and  the  rapidity  with  which  it  takes 
in  line  has,  by  reason  of  knots  and  snarls,  cost  me  so 
many  broken  tips  that  I  have  long  abandoned  its  use,  ex- 


A   GAME    FISH.  151 

cept  for  striped  bass.  Possibly,  had  I  been  able  to  re- 
cover line  as  fast  as  this  fish  came  up  stream,  I  should 
have  saved  him.  As  it  was,  by  the  time  I  had  reeled  in 
thirty  yards  I  found  my  flies  free  for  another  cast,  and  I 
cast  again.  It  is  of  no  use  to  lament  a  lost  fish.  I  had 
enjoyed  the  satisfaction  of  his  first  strike.  Though  an 
angler  often  says  after  landing  a  fine  fish,  "  I  was  sure  of 
him  when  I  felt  him  strike,"  nevertheless,  I  suppose  he 
never  yet  felt  really  sure  of  a  fish  until  he  had  him  in  the 
landing-net — nor  then  always.  More  than  once  I  have 
seen  a  fine  fish  not  yet  dead  thrown  overboard  from  the 
bottom  of  a  boat,  where  his  teeth  were  caught  in  the 
meshes  of  the  landing-net  suddenly  lifted  to  take  in  an- 
other. It  is  safe  to  be  always  ready  to  lose  a  fish.  Nor 
have  I  ever  known  a  more  remarkable  loss  than  occurred 
to  me  still  later  on  that  day.  Frank  had  followed  down 
the  bank  of  the  river,  and  I  had  twice  given  him  my  full 
basket  to  empty.  After  the  second  emptying,  the  first  fish 
which  I  took  I  put  in  it,  a  three-quarter  pounder,  and, 
standing  on  a  fallen  tree  six  feet  above  the  stream,  cast 
below  over  a  deep  hole,  and,  as  I  cast,  saw  this  fish's 
head  coming  out  of  the  receiving  hole  in  the  top  of  the 
basket.  Before  my  left  hand  could  reach  him,  a  flap  of 
his  tail  sent  him  like  a  shot  into  the  air  before  my  eyes, 
and  he  vanished  in  the  pool  below  me. 

"  John,"  said  I,  "  after  that  I  am  going  home.  A  soli- 
tary fish  standing  up  on  his  tail  and  putting  his  head  out 
of  the  hole  in  a  twelve-pound  creel  is  a  wonderful  sight, 
and  means  something.  Let  us  be  superstitious  for  once, 
and  stop  work." 

I  have  thus  given  a  sketch  of  six  days  of  Adirondack 
fishing,  and  you  perceive  a  gradual  improvement  in  the 
catch  of  fish  as  the  season  advanced.  At  the  same  time, 


152  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

however,  you  will  bear  in  mind  that  black  flies  and  mos- 
quitoes increase  as  the  fishing  improves. 

On  Monday  morning  before  breakfast  I  killed  nine  fish 
near  the  house,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Weller  brook,  which 
weighed  eleven  and  a  half  pounds.  I  can  not  learn  from 
any  one  that  a  speckled  trout  has  been  taken  in  these 
Adirondack  waters  for  many  years  weighing  over  four 
pounds.  There  is  nothing  in  size  to  equal  our  Maine 
waters,  where  the  brook  trout  grows  to  weigh  eleven 
pounds,  and  where  seven  and  eight  pound  fish  are  as 
common  as  three-pound  fish  elsewhere.  It  is  not  a  very 
common  thing  in  the  Adirondacks  in  modern  times  to  find 
a  trout  over  two  and  a  half  pounds.  I  saw  one  taken  out 
of  Cold  Brook,  a  branch  of  the  Osgood,  which  was  a  little 
short  of  three  pounds.  But  it  will  prove  difficult  to  find 
a  comfortable  hotel  and  home  like  Paul  Smith's  any  where 
in  the  world  with  plenty  of  good  trout  within  ten  minutes 
of  the  door,  and  in  the  later  season  a  reasonable  number 
of  three-pounders.  My  camping  days  are  pretty  much 
over,  and  I  prefer  now  a  good  roof,  a  good  table,  a  good 
bed,  and  some  of  the  refinements  of  civilized  life  in  the 
evening  after  a  day's  sport,  and  here  one  has  all  that  is 
needed. 

My  camping  days  are  pretty  much  over,  I  say,  and  yet 
I  slept  on  the  balsam  boughs  one  night.  John  and  Frank 
were  very  anxious  to  have  me  revive  old  memories  by 
going  to  Follansbee  Junior  for  a  night.  I  yielded  to  the 
temptation,  and  on  Wednesday  morning,  while  Frank  went 
in  on  foot  across  the  woods,  John  and  myself  went  down 
the  St.  Regis  River  fishing,  till  we  came  to  the  junction  of 
the  Follansbee  outlet,  and  up  that  to  the  pond.  The  St.  Re- 
gis is  a  wild  stream,  now  pouring  down  rocky  rapids,  now 
gliding  swiftly  under  dark  pine  groves,  now  lounging  slug- 


FOLLANSBEE   JUNIOR.  153 

gishly  in  the  sunshine  between  banks  loaded  with  the 
swamp  alders.  The  water  was  low,  and  we  could  not 
shoot  all  the  rapids,  so  that  we  had  now  and  then  to  jump 
out  in  the  stream  and  lower  the  boat  among  the  rocks. 
A  half-dozen  times  we  lifted  her  over  fallen  trees.  In  one 
place  we  slipped  through  under  a  fallen  pine  by  lying  flat 
in  the  bottom,  and  had  not  an  inch  to  spare,  as  the  bark 
of  the  old  tree  scraped  our  backs.  There  are  some  points 
of  rare  beauty  along  the  river,  and  all  the  way  the  scenery 
is  wild  and  fine. 

But  the  outlet  of  Follansbee  Junior  was  fearful  for  boat 
work.  At  best  it  is  but  a  brook,  winding  in  a  thousand 
short  curves  and  angles  for  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the 
pond  to  the  St.  Regis.  We  found  it  unusually  low,  and 
some  one  had  broken  up  the  beaver  dams,  of  which  there 
were  three  or  four  on  it,  and  which  served  to  set  back  the 
water  somewhat  and  make  it  deeper.  We  had  as  hot  and 
heavy  an  afternoon's  work  as  could  be  desired.  Now  we 
pushed  with  our  paddles,  now  we  dragged  on  the  bushes, 
now  we  stuck  fast  in  sharp  angles,  and  now  we  found  the 
water  almost  wholly  invisible  ahead  of  us  among  the  roots 
of  the  alders.  I  became  so  thoroughly  disgusted  with  the 
work  that,  having  the  bow  paddle,  I  jumped  over,  and, 
seizing  her  by  the  nose,  plunged  ahead  and  dragged  her 
for  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  But  this  was  none  too  easy,  for 
the  treacherous  little  brook  abounds  in  holes  into  which  I 
went  deep,  and  in  quicksand  bottom  where  my  feet  sank 
and  stuck  hard.  But  perseverance  conquers,  and  we  came 
out  of  the  woods  at  last  on  the  calm  surface  of  the  beauti- 
ful little  lake,  and  paddled  up  to  the  old  shanty  where 
Frank  was  waiting  for  us.  Many  who  read  this,  and  more 
who  will  not  read  it,  remember  that  old  shanty  on  Follans- 
bee Junior  which  has  been  for  many  a  year  the  sports- 


154  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

man's  favorite  camp.  Built  in  a  swamp,  with  intent  to 
have  it  where  it  will  not  be  burned  by  forest  fires,  it  is  the 
chosen  resort  of  many  million  mosquitoes  and  black  flies, 
and  yet  it  has  been  the  resting-place  of  a  hundred  sports- 
men in  past  times.  For  the  lake  abounds  in  trout,  and 
is  a  choice  feeding-place  for  deer.  In  the  evening  we 
paddled  up  to  the  mouth  of  the  principal  inlet  brook  and 
took  out  some  trout  for  supper ;  for  those  which  I  had 
taken  in  the  day  I  had  sent  home  by  a  boy  who  came  in 
with  Frank.  The  twilight  was  fading  into  a  soft  moon- 
light, and  I  lay  back  in  the  boat,  on  the  lonesome  lake, 
and  remembered  scenes  in  old  days  that  will  not  come 
back,  call  them  ever  so  loud,  ever  so  beseechingly. 

Once  I  was  on  this  lake,  with  John  M'Laughlin  for  my 
guide  as  now,  and  when  the  evening  came  down  it  began 
to  rain,  and  the  fish  rose  fast.  It  was  the  deer  season 
then,  but  we  were  after  trout.  I  was  seated  on  the  bow 
of  the  boat,  John  at  the  stern  holding  her  fast  by  his 
paddle  driven  into  the  sandy  bottom.  A  rifle  lay  in  the 
boat  at  his  feet,  but  we  had  not  thought  of  using  it.  I 
had  on  a  white  rubber  coat — one  of  the  light  English 
coats,  almost  as  white  as  linen,  and  a  broad-brim  white 
felt  hat,  turned  down  all  around  to  shed  the  rain.  As 
I  was  casting  I  raised  my  eyes  to  the  opposite  shore 
of  the  pond,  a  hundred  rods  across,  and  saw  a  buck 
come  out  of  the  cover  to  the  shore.  I  spoke  in  a  low 
voice — 

"  John,  there's  a  deer." 

"  Where  ?" 

"Just  to  the  right  of  the  Quebec  landing." 

"  I  see  him.  I'll  try  how  near  I  can  paddle  you  up  to 
him.  if  you'll  shoot." 

"  No,  I'll  sit  still  if  you'll  paddle  and  shoot,  but  with  this 


SHOOTING   A    BUCK.  155 

white  coat  of  mine  I  don't  believe  we  can  stir  without  his 
going." 

I  used  to  think  that  a  deer  was  one  of  the  most  foolish 
of  animals,  for  he  will  even  stand  and  look  steadily  at  a 
man  as  long  as  the  man  is  motionless,  but  almost  at  the 
wink  of  an  eye,  surely  at  the  slightest  movement  of  a  head 
or  hand,  he  is  away.  Imagine  the  scene  as  we  moved 
across  the  lake  in  the  gloaming,  for  it  was  past  sunset  of 
a  rainy  evening,  and  tell  me  if  that  buck  was  not  exceed- 
ingly stupid  for  an  animal  supposed  to  be  timid  beyond 
all  others.  I  was  in  the  extreme  bow,  a  white  statue.  I 
folded  my  arms  cautiously  at  the  start  to  cover  even  my 
hands.  John  and  the  boat  were  out  of  sight  behind  me, 
and  the  paddle  was  invisible  and  noiseless  as  we  shot 
across  the  lake.  He  was  feeding  on  the  grass  in  the  edge 
of  the  water,  standing  broadside  to  us  with  his  head  down. 
At  fifty  rods'  distance  he  raised  his  head  and  saw  us. 
Stretching  up  his  long  neck  and  turning  his  head  full  at 
us,  he  stared  in  astonishment  at  first,  curiosity  next,  satis- 
faction at  last,  for  the  paddle  had  stopped,  and  he  only 
looked  at  a  motionless  white  mass  which  resembled  noth- 
ing he  ever  saw  before.  As  soon  as  he  began  to  feed 
again  we  advanced  swiftly  some  fifteen  or  twenty  rods, 
when  he  lifted  his  head  again,  and  again  seemed  lost  in 
wonderment.  We  were  not  more  than  thirty  rods  off, 
and  as  he  looked  at  me  I  looked  at  him  for  full  two  min- 
utes, but  though  I  could  see  his  eyes  he  clearly  failed  to 
see  mine.  If  he  had  ever  been  in  the  Vatican  Gallery  he 
would  have  recognized  the  queer  object  before  him.  It 
resembled  nothing  so  much  as  a  herculean  torso,  without 
arms,  of  old  marble  a  little  yellowed  by  earth  and  age. 
Certainly  he  had  never  before  seen  a  man  in  a  white  rub- 
ber coat,  for  at  length  he  went  to  feeding  again.  Now 


156  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

John  sent  his  paddle  into  the  water.  Ten  or  a  dozen 
sharp  strokes,  and  up  went  the  head  again  to  look  at  us, 
but  the  bow  of  the  boat  swerved  just  enough  to  let  John 
shoot  over  my  left,  and  at  the  instant  the  rifle  cracked, 
down  went  the  buck,  dead  at  the  fall.  I  never  saw  a 
deer  fall  more  suddenly.  After  that  I  advised  sportsmen 
to  paddle  up  to  deer  with  white  rubber  coats  on. 


IX. 

CONNECTICUT  STREAMS. 

ALL  along  the  northern  shore  of  Long  Island  Sound, 
running  down  through  the  rocky  "back-bone"  of  Connec- 
ticut, which  is  generally  only  three  or  four  miles  distant 
from  the  Sound,  are  streams  of  water  which  used  to 
abound  in  trout.  Perhaps  they  do  so  still,  but  it  is  some 
years  since  I  have  fished  them.  I  know  that  some  of 
these  streams  are  now  preserved,  and  yield  abundant 
recompense  to  their  guardians. 

The  salt-water  trout,  as  some  call  them,  differ  in  no  re- 
spect from  the  mountain  trout.  And  whether  their  flavor 
is  improved  by  access  to  the  salt  water  is  a  matter  of 
taste.  The  rich  red  color  of  their  meat  is  probably  due 
to  the  abundance  of  shrimp  and  shell-fish  on  which  they 
feed.  And  this  is  also  the  most  probable  reason  for  the 
variation  in  the  color  of  the  meat  of  inland  trout.  Most 
of  our  lakes  and  slow  running  streams  abound  in  fresh- 
water shrimp,  which  are  a  favorite  food  of  trout.  They 
are  small,  but  can  be  found  by  thousands  in  masses  of 
weed  and  water  plants,  and  where  they  are  thus  seen 
the  trout  will  invariably  be  found  to  have  red  meat.  In 
swift  running  streams  the  shrimp  are  not  found,  and  the 
meat  of  the  trout  is  white.  Probably  other  food  of  a 
similar  character,  possibly  snails  and  small  shell-fish,  con- 
tribute to  the  ruddy  tint  of  the  flesh.  As  a  general  rule. 


158  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

the  trout  with  red  meat  is  esteemed  superior  in  flavor. 
But  this  is  not  an  invariable  rule.  My  own  taste  places 
as  generally  the  finest  flavored  trout  I  know  of  those 
which  are  taken  in  Profile  Lake  in  New  Hampshire,  and 
which  have  red  meat,  but  I  have  often  found  them  fully 
equaled  by  the  small  trout  from  the  Pemigewasset  River, 
which  runs  out  of  the  lake,  and  whose  flesh  is  always 
white.  These  trout  are,  however,  better  in  flavor  in  rainy 
seasons,  when  the  river  is  high,  and  inferior  when  the 
streams  run  low.  The  flavor  of  trout  of  the  Connecticut 
shore  coming  up  from  the  salt  water  is  uniformly  fine, 
and  I  think  as  a  general  rule  superior  to  the  Long  Isl- 
and trout.  The  latter  are  sometimes  woody  even  after  a 
run  in  the  bay.  In  fact,  the  flavor  depends  chiefly  on  the 
food,  and  somewhat  on  the  freedom  of  exercise  which  the 
fish  enjoys. 

There  was  a  stream  not  far  from  New  London  which 
in  former  years  I  was  accustomed  to  fish  with  great  suc- 
cess. It  ran  through  a  variety  of  country,  rising  far  back 
among  the  hills  and  wandering,  now  in  a  deep  swampy 
forest,  now  losing  itself  in  a  diffuse  course  over  acres  of 
marsh,  and  now  dashing  down  a  rocky  hill,  into  a  field  of 
hard  turf,  through  which  it  flows  under  high,  bare  banks, 
and  now  again  descending  a  ravine,  from  rock  to  rock, 
and  basin  to  basin,  till  it  reaches  the  pool  at  the  bottom 
of  the  hill,  which  is  also  the  head  of  tide-water,  in  an  arm 
of  the  sea  that  puts  up  thus  far.  I  might  add,  that  it  is 
crossed  by  a  railroad  bridge  before  it  reaches  the  salt 
water,  from  which  many  thousand  eyes  have  looked  down 
on  the  stream,  without  knowing  what  treasures  to  the 
fisherman  lay  below  its  surface. 

In  point  of  fact,  it  was  in  that  way  that  I  discovered 
the  stream.  I  had  crossed  it  two  or  three  times,  and  each 


PLUNGING    IN.  159 

time  when  in  haste ;  but  each  time  with  the  resolution 
formed  that  I  would  one  day  sound  the  depth  of  that 
stream,  and  know  more  of  its  character.  One  of  those 
windy  days,  when  it  blew  as  if  the  wind  had  not  had  a 
holiday  for  a  year,  I  drove  off  from  Stonington  in  the 
afternoon,  and  before  dark  reached  a  farm-house  near  the 
stream  and  asked  for  a  night's  lodging.  I  found,  as  I 
was  sure  I  should,  a  warm  and  hospitable  reception,  and 
was  made  comfortable  for  the  night  in  a  large  bed  in  a 
large  room,  in  a  wing  of  the  house  around  which  the  wind 
roared  all  night  long,  until  toward  morning  it  grew  tired 
of  vainly  trying  to  keep  me  awake,  for  I  slept  well,  and 
woke  with  the  day.  By  eight  o'clock  I  found  myself  on 
the  stream.  I  struck  it  in  an  open  field,  just  above  the 
swamp  in  the  wood,  and  it  appeared  to  be  necessary  to 
go  through  the  swamp,  if  I  would  fairly  try  the  brook.  So 
I  plunged  into  it  boldly.  It  was  my  first  trial  of  wet  feet 
that  year,  and  I  had  some  misgivings  at  the  first,  but  they 
all  vanished  at  the  first  misstep  I  made,  when  I  found 
myself  standing  in  three  feet  of  mud  and  water,  with  a 
coating  of  both  over  my  right  cheek,  and  a  considerable 
quantity  of  the  former  in  my  left  eye.  It  was  natural.  I 
had  suddenly  a  sort  of  at  home  feeling.  I  had  expe- 
rienced such  sensations  before.  I  was  in  my  old  business. 
So  I  plodded  my  way  along,  crushing  thin  ice  at  every 
step,  and  watching  for  any  indications  of  trout.  A  musk 
rat,  who  made  a  mistake  in  getting  on  the  ice  instead  of 
under  it,  was  the  first  animal  of  the  ferce  naturcz  that  I 
discovered.  He  disappeared  in  a  large  open  space  of 
water,  and  suspecting  that  there  were  deep  spring  holes 
thereabouts,  I  approached  somewhat  cautiously,  and  threw 
over  the  darkest  hole  under  the  roots  of  a  maple. 

My  flies  had  but  touched  the  surface,  when  a  gentle 


160  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

rise,  followed  by  a  heavy  pull,  indicated  that  some  animal 
had  it.  I  don't  know  what  it  was.  It  is  not  probable 
that  I  ever  shall  know.  I  did  not  see  the  animal.  I  never 
saw  my  tail  fly  again.  Probably  it  was  a  fish ;  and  prob- 
ably, with  a  sagacity  truly  astonishing,  he  took  a  round 
turn  with  my  leader  around  a  root  of  the  maple,  to  pre- 
vent my  getting  the  advantage  of  him  on  a  pull.  What- 
ever course  he  pursued,  he  was  successful ;  for  when  I 
gave  it  up,  and  pulled  a  steady,  strong  pull,  I  got  nothing. 
My  line  came  up  without  a  tail  fly,  and  I  replaced  it,  and 
tried  again  on  the  same  hole.  Would  you  believe  it,  the 
result  was  exactly  the  same  again  ! — a  rise,  a  rush,  a  round 
turn,  a  reasonable  and  patient  delay,  then  I  paid  out, 
threw  the  slack  over  my  shoulder  and,  taking  the  line  in 
my  hand,  drew  gently,  stronger,  stronger  yet,  and  up  came 
the  leader  without  the  fly  or  trout.  The  pool  was  inac- 
cessible, or  this  need  not  have  occurred.  But  I  could  not 
get  to  it  to  sound  it,  and  so  I  tried  a  third  fly,  and  cast  a 
third  time.  Sir,  it  was  a  school  of  trout,  where  they  were 
taught  to  outwit  fishermen.  I  never  saw  that  fly  either. 
I  waited  ten  minutes,  hoping  that  the  trout  would  suppose 
I  was  gone  and  cast  off  his  fast.  But  no.  He  had  prob- 
ably found  a  trout-surgeon  to  extract  the  hook,  while  I 
stood  there  waiting,  and  I  broke  the  leader,  reeled  up  my 
line,  and  sought  an  open  field  where  the  fish  were  less 
knowing. 

The  grass  was  just  sprouting  in  the  meadow  into  which 
the  stream  debouched  from  the  morass,  and  I  threw  over 
a  ripple  below  a  fall.  The  second  or  third  cast  was 
successful,  and  I  lifted  a  very  decent  fish,  weighing  say 
three  quarters  of  a  pound.  I  took  another  out  of  the 
same  ripple,  and  then  followed  the  stream  downward. 

They  seemed  to  be  lying  in  pairs  in  all  the  favorable 


STREAM    FISHING.  l6l 

places.  I  generally  got  two  where  I  got  one,  and  sel- 
dom more  than  two.  The  morning  wore  along,  and  I 
worked  slowly  down  stream,  enjoying  the  air  which  grew 
softer  momentarily  as  the  sun  approached  the  zenith.  I 
took  a  dozen  in  the  open  meadow,  and  then  entered  the 
ravine,  where  the  stream  commenced  its  descent  of  half 
a  mile  toward  salt  water.  In  the  first  basin  I  took  one 
larger  than  any  I  had  previously  caught,  and  then  sat 
down  to  rest  a  while  in  the  sunshine,  which  stole  deli- 
ciously  down  through  the  branches  of  the  leafless  trees. 
I  had  a  book  in  my  pocket.  It  was  soaked  through  and 
through,  evidently  at  my  first  plunge  above  described, 
when  I  had  filled  my  pocket  as  well  as  my  eye  with  mud 
and  water.  I  made  a  large  fire,  and  laid  the  book  near 
it  to  dry.  I  wished  to  save  it  if  I  could,  and  I  left  it 
there  while  I  went  down  the  stream.  For  company  to 
the  book  I  left  a  trout,  a  large,  fine  fellow,  split  and  lying 
on  a  flat  stone,  judiciously  slanting  toward  the  blaze,  and 
toward  where  the  coals  would  be  when  the  blaze  should 
die  away.  It  was  an  experiment.  I  had  never  tried  it 
before  in  that  way,  and  I  had  not  over  much  confidence 
in  it.  But  I  left  it  to  work  its  own  success  or  failure, 
while  I  whipped  the  stream  down  to  the  railroad  bridge. 
Before  I  reached  the  foot  of  the  ravine  the  cover  closed 
over  the  stream,  and  it  was  impossible  to  do  any  thing 
with  the  flies.  I  know  many  anglers  who  under  the  cir- 
cumstances would  abandon  the  brook,  and  go  on  down 
to  some  more  open  place  for  a  cast.  I  counsel  no  such 
nonsense  as  this.  The  true  angler  is  not  confined  to  fly- 
fishing as  many  imagine.  When  the  fly  can  be  used  it 
always  should  be  used,  but  where  the  fly  is  impracticable, 
or  where  fish  will  not  rise  to  it,  he  is  a  very  foolish  an- 
gler who  declines  to  use  bait. 

L 


162  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

Without  doubt  there  is  quite  as  much  skill  and  experi- 
ence necessary  to  the  fisherman  with  bait  as  to  the  fish- 
erman with  the  fly.  How  many  will  call  this  heresy ! 
But  let  the  angler  who  is  so  fond  of  his  fly  that  he  re- 
gards bait-fishing  as  always  vulgar,  try  with  me  the  dash- 
ing Pemigewasset,  and  I  prophesy  that  in  five  miles  of 
that  glorious  torrent  he  will  not  raise  five  trout  to  a  fly, 
and  I  will  have  taken,  following  behind  him,  three  hun- 
dred. Small  fish,  of  course,  for  the  most  part,  but  an  oc- 
casional half-pounder,  and  once  in  a  while  a  larger  trout. 
In  that  river  they  will  not  rise  to  a  fly  at  any  season.  I 
have  tried  it  more  than  a  hundred  times.  And  for  that 
reason  shall  I  forego  the  splendid  scenery,  the  magnifi- 
cent ravines,  the  wild  rush  of  the  white  torrent  down  its 
thousand  feet  of  descent,  the  beautiful  pools  among  old 
rocks,  the  long  stretches  of  still,  clear  water  —  all  the 
glories  of  the  most  glorious  river  in  America  ?  I  think 
not.  That  is  a  stream  down  which  it  is  worth  an  an- 
gler's while  to  go,  with  a  short  rod  and  short  line,  and  a 
worm-bait,  or  the  tail  of  a  trout  to  tempt  his  fellows. 

I  took  off  my  leader  and  flies,  wound  it  around  my  hat, 
and  replaced  it  with  a  hook  and  a  single  shot  by  way  of 
sinker.  A  fly-rod  is  not  the  best  for  bait-fishing;  but  I 
had  taken  a  somewhat  stiffer  rod  than  usual,  anticipating 
the  occasion.  With  three  feet  of  line  or  even  less  I 
reached  into  deep  holes  under  heavy  bushes  and  fallen 
trees  that  jammed  the  ravine,  and  took  out  a  fine  lot  of 
trout,  working  my  way  down  with  great  difficulty,  until  I 
found  myself  standing  on  the  last  pile  of  drift-wood,  from 
under  which  the  stream  flowed  into  the  head  of  tide-wa- 
ter—  a  lagoon  in  the  salt  marsh  —  in  which  I  hoped  to 
find  large  salt-water  trout. 

Replacing  my  flies,  I  cast  diligently  up  and  down  the 


FOUR   POUNDS.  163 

stream,  but  in  vain.  Then  I  came  back  to  the  bait;  but 
now  I  changed  it.  With  a  small  fly-hook  and  a  bit  of 
worm  I  took  a  minnow,  and  used  him  to  entrap  his  en- 
emy the  trout.  Nor  without  success.  I  struck  a  two- 
pound  trout,  and  landed  him  after  a  three-minute  strug- 
gle. Another,  not  so  large,  and  another,  and  yet  a 
fourth.  For  each  I  had  to  catch  a  minnow,  and  it  took 
time.  I  was  fishing  for  a  fifth  minnow  when  I  heard  the 
whistle  and  roar  of  an  express  train  a  mile  or  so  away. 
I  looked  up  and  forgot  my  hook  for  a  moment,  so  that  it 
went  to  the  bottom.  My  eye  was  directed  down  the  rail- 
road, and  I  saw  the  engine,  a  black  spot  on  the  track, 
swelling  as  it  approached,  when  a  sharp  pull  called  my 
attention  to  the  business  in  hand.  He  had  gotten  some 
yards  of  line  already,  and  was  going  down  stream  with 
a  rush.  I  felt  him,  and  he  pulled  with  a  strong  pull. 
"  Four  pounds  at  least,"  was  my  first  idea,  and  down  I 
followed  him.  That  railroad  bridge  was  a  puzzle  to  me. 
The  stream  narrowed  to  go  under  it,  and  I  had  guessed 
its  depth  to  be  not  less  than  four  feet,  with  mud  bottom. 
If  the  fish  got  through  it,  he  had  the  advantage  of  me. 
So  I  made  a  dead  stand,  and  stopped  him.  I  tried  the 
reel,  but  I  could  not  budge  him  toward  me.  So  I  reeled 
in,  while  I  approached  him,  until  I  had  about  three  fath- 
oms out.  Just  then  the  train  was  approaching,  and  I 
saw  three  or  four  heads  out  of  the  windows  watching  my 
movements.  As  they  dashed  by  at  fifty  miles  an  hour,  I 
was  trying  to  lift  the  fish  to  the  surface  and  ascertain 
what  he  was.  For  though  not  thirty  seconds  had  passed 
since  he  took  the  hook,  I  knew  by  this  time  he  was  no 
trout.  Nor  was  he.  I  did  not  land  him  with  that  light 
rod  for  full  ten  minutes. 

If  the  excited  gentleman  who  was  looking  out  of  the 


164  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

last  window  of  the  last  car  of  that  train,  and  who  sprang 
out  to  the  platform  so  swiftly,  and  waved  his  hand  to  me 
with  such  an  emphatic  gesture  of  delight,  has  any  curi- 
osity about  that  fish,  and  if  he  ever  read  this  book,  then 
these  presents  are  to  inform  him  that  that  fish  was  no 
trout  at  all.  It  was  a  bull-pout,  a  cat-fish,  or  whatever 
you  choose  to  call  the  ugly,  devilish-looking  rascals  that 
lie  in  mud  holes  and  come  out  to  annoy  respectable  fish- 
ermen. I  killed  that  fish.  I  deliberately  hammered 
him  on  a  stone  till  his  head  was  dead.  His  tail,  I  sup- 
pose, is  yet  alive.  But  he  will  not  bite  again. 

I  returned  to  the  rock  where  I  had  left  my  book  and 
my  trout.  The  book  was  there.  So  was  Caesar,  the 
large  dog  from  the  farm-house.  So  was  not  the  trout. 
I  had  my  suspicions.  The  dog  saw  that  I  had,  and, 
dropping  his  head  and  tail,  slunk  into  the  cover,  and  did 
not  meet  me  at  the  door  when  I  returned  to  the  farm- 
house. The  book  was  dry,  and  I  walked  homeward  with 
over  two  dozen  trout,  every  one  of  them  fit  for  a  royal 
table.  And  they  graced  a  royal  table  that  evening,  load- 
ed with  the  luxuries  of  country  life.  And  when  the  even- 
ing waxed  late,  and  the  hour  of  separating  came,  I  went 
to  my  room  to  sleep.  The  wind  swept  occasionally  with 
a  wail  through  the  tree  overhead,  and  rattled  a  loose 
shingle  on  the  roof,  but  I  slept  none  the  less  soundly 
and  quietly. 

After  that  I  used  often  to  fish  that  stream,  sometimes 
alone,  sometimes  with  friends. 

One  morning,  when  I  was  fishing  the  stream  upward 
above  the  swamp,  I  found  what  is  a  noteworthy  charac- 
teristic of  many  of  the  farms  in  this  part  of  Connecticut. 
It  seems  to  have  been  the  ancient  custom  for  the  farmer 
to  have  a  family  burying-place  on  his  farm.  And  I  sup- 


GRAVES    IN    THE    THICKET.  165 

pose  that  when  the  farm  was  sold,  the  title  to  the  graves 
was  reserved.  And  so  it  happens  that  on  some  farms 
there  are  several  burial-places  of  different  families.  And 
I  have  often  found  little  groups  of  graves  in  the  most 
out-of-the-way  places,  overgrown  with  bushes,  in  dense 
thickets,  evidently  unvisited  for  many  years,  apparently 
forgotten  utterly.  No  one  lives  to  tend  them.  No  one 
cares  for  the  memory  of  the  sleeping  family.  It  is  some- 
what curious  to  stand  by  such  graves.  One  recalls  in 
imagination  a  distant  past,  and  wonders  again  and  again 
as  he  thinks  how  wholly  the  generations  of  men  pass 
out  of  memory.  There  were  tears  and  sobs  and  all  the 
emotions  of  sorrowing  human  nature  once  by  these 
graves.  As  each  was  opened  and  closed,  and  a  new 
treasure  committed  to  the  ground,  the  same  grief  was 
manifested,  the  same  old  mournful  utterances  were  heard 
where  now  the  bird  sings  unmolested.  The  young  and 
the  old  died  then  as  now.  In  the  farm-house,  which 
strangers  occupy,  there  have  been  sad  scenes  enacted  in 
old  days. 

As  I  pressed  my  way  through  dense  cover  on  the  bank 
of  the  brook,  I  found  my  passage  blocked  by  a  row  of 
grave-stones.  The  bushes  were  tangled  and  thick  above, 
and  the  moss  was  green  and  wet  on  them,  and  no  in- 
scription was  visible.  I  picked  up  a  stone,  and  rubbed 
it  over  the  surface  of  one  of  them,  and  so  there  began  to 
be  visible  enough  to  show  me  that  it  was  the  resting- 
place  of  Faith  -  — ,  who  died  in  1772,  aged  eighteen 
years.  There  were  some  lines  below,  hidden  where  the 
strong  stems  of  the  bushes  were  crowded  close  to  the 
stone,  and  I  could  not  press  them  back  sufficiently  far  to 
clean  the  moss  and  read  the  epitaph.  I  could  only 
make  out  parts  of  some  words,  but  I  discovered  the  let- 


l66  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

ters  HAP — ,  and  that  word  so  often  found  in  such  places 
— PEACE. 

When  the  light  of  those  young  eyes  faded  there  must 
have  been  deep  grief  in  the  cottage.  Might  I  not  muse 
and  weave  a  story,  standing  in  the  thicket  by  her  grave  ? 
She  was  past  all  harm  from  gossiping  story-teller.  She 
whose  pure  young  life  would  have  been  marred  if  any 
one  had  ventured  to  talk  too  freely  of  her  living.  But 
death,  while  it  sanctifies,  makes  the  dead  a  sort  of  pos- 
session of  all  the  world.  We  take  our  dead  out  of  the 
house,  and  out  of  the  family  circle,  and  lay  them  in  the 
open  congregation,  and  mark  their  names  for  all  the 
world  to  read,  and  if  that  means  any  thing,  it  surely 
means  that  the  world  may  now  talk  of  them,  for  they  are 
beyond  reach  of  injury  from  mortal  voice. 

She  who  sleeps  in  the  thicket  was  eighteen  years 
among  the  trees  that  are  now  overshadowing  the  cottage. 
I  have  seen  the  trees,  and  they  must  have  been  old  and 
stout  and  broad  when  she  was  living.  Her  name  was 
Faith,  a  good  old  name,  common  in  Connecticut,  and  I 
dare  to  think  that  she  was  worthy  of  it.  It  is  a  pleasant 
name  for  a  young  girl,  implying  trustful  confidence.  Did 
she  not  grow  up  among  the  beautiful  things  of  earth  ? 
Did  she  not  learn  to  love  them  all  ?  There  can  be  no 
purer  life  on  earth  than  that  of  the  young  girl  who  lives 
in  the  quiet  home  of  a  country  farm-house,  learning  little 
except  of  nature,  and  taught  by  the  country  pastor  to 
look  always  up  to  God  from  his  works.  Do  you  remem- 
ber what  Sir  Thomas  Overbury  wrote  of  the  "  Faire  and 
happy  milk  maide  ?" 

"  She  dares  go  alone  and  unfold  sheep  in  the  night, 
and  fears  no  manner  of  ill,  for  she  means  none.  She  is 
never  alone,  for  she  is  always  accompanied  with  old  songs, 


THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER.  167 

honest  thoughts  and  prayers ;  short  ones,  but  they  have 
their  efficacy !  Her  dreams  are  so  chaste  that  she  dare 
tell  them.  Only  a  Friday's  dream  is  her  superstition. 
That  she  conceals.  Thus  lives  she,  and  her  only  care  is 
that  she  may  die  in  spring-time,  to  have  store  of  flowers 
stuck  upon  her  winding-sheet." 

I  need  not  deny  that  I  thought  of  that  description  when 
I  was  standing  by  the  grave  in  the  thicket.  How  could 
I  help  thinking  of  it  ?  Perhaps  it  had  to  do  with  my  im- 
aginations also.  Thus  they  went  on. 

The  farmer's  daughter  grew  up,  beautiful  and  beloved. 
In  the  morning  she  saw  the  sun  rise  from  the  sea,  and  her 
young  thoughts  went  wandering  to  the  far  East,  and  she 
remembered  the  story  of  the  Passion.  In  the  evening, 
tired  with  her  day's  work,  she  saw  the  starlight  on  the 
water,  and  drank  in  the  beauty  of  the  night  as  one  by  one 
the  stars  went  down  the  sky,  and  by  the  intuition  of  youth, 
not  unaided  by  some  sorrowful  experiences  even  in  her 
young  life,  she  learned  that  the  bright  and  beautiful  things 
of  earth  go  out  one  by  one,  but  that  to  the  patient  watch- 
er, even  in  cloudy  nights,  there  will  come  other  visions  of 
beauty,  other  stars  to  be  bright  and  shining  in  their  turn, 
and  that  there  is  a  to-morrow,  when  the  blue  will  be  as 
beautiful  and  the  stars  as  clear.  Patience  is  the  lesson 
of  the  star-watchers.  The  old  Chaldean  learned  it  when 
the  stars  were  younger  than  now.  I  have  seen  the  Bed- 
ouin, lying  prone  on  the  desert  sand,  studying  the  unceas- 
ing revolution  of  the  sky,  and  learning  the  same  lesson. 
Why  might  not  Faith,  the  young  girl  in  Connecticut,  learn 
it  as  well  ?  This  is  all  a  fancy  story  you  know,  but  let  us 
give  rein  to  fancy.  She  grew  up  exceeding  fair  and  beau- 
tiful. The  sunshine  kissed  her  cheek  only  to  give  it  the 
bloom  of  a  rose.  Her  eve  borrowed  the  color  of  the 


l68  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

night  sky  she  loved  to  gaze  at.  Her  hair  was  curled  by 
the  loving  fingers  of  the  wind.  Invisible  spirits  of  earth 
and  forest  and  sea-shore  surrounded  and  guarded  her. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  be  a  "  Spiritualist"  to  believe  in 
spirits.  Draw  the  line  correctly.  We  all  believe  in  spir- 
its. Few  are  so  skeptical  as  not  to  believe  in  spiritual  in- 
fluences and  communications.  The  great  point  is  that 
we  can  not  exchange  converse  with  them.  There  is  the 
boundary  between  the  visible  and  the  invisible  world. 
They  hear  us,  they  see  us,  they  may  even  know  our 
thoughts,  and  fully  appreciate  our  longings.  But  they 
are  forbidden  to  tell  us  the  mystery  of  the  dividing  wall 
between  us,  and  as  to  their  escaping  the  prohibition  by 
thunderous  raps  on  pine  tables,  or  the  smashing  of  furni- 
ture about  our  legs,  it  is  nonsense.  If  some  interpreter 
will  rise  to  tell  me  what  the  voices  are  which  float  on  the 
sea-wind  at  night,  and  fill  my  ear  and  soul  with  melody, 
and  with  emotions  that  I  can  not  understand ;  if  some 
seer  will  explain  to  me  why  the  rays  of  yonder  star,  rising 
above  the  hills,  make  me  so  restless  that  I  can  not  sit, 
but  must  walk  up  and  down  the  gallery,  and  think  and 
think  and  think,  as  a  swift-crowding,  crushing  host  of 
memories  and  hopes  and  fears  and  wild  untrained  fancies 
go  through  my  brain  ;  if  some  one  of  spirit  lore  will  come 
to  me  and  tell  me  that  the  day  and  night  are  full  of  spir- 
itual voices,  and  give  me  the  key  to  unlock  sunshine  and 
starlight,  and  possess  the  messages  they  bring ;  if  there 
be  any  one  who  will  take  for  me  one  message,  and  bring 
me  back  one  answer,  from  a  silver-haired  old  man  who 
has  gone  to  God  and  stands  now  before  his  throne,  white- 
robed,  a  message  that  will  tell  me  how  I  may  henceforth 
talk  with  him  as  of  old,  and  gather  counsels  in  times  of 
agony  as  I  used  to  gather  them  at  his  feet  when  all  our 


THE   YOUNG   GIRL    FAITH.  169 

lives  were  peaceful,  let  the  wise  man  make  himself  known, 
and  I  alone  with  my  own  hands  will  build  him  a  temple 
where  men  shall  worship  his  memory  for  ages  to  come. 
1  know  that  the  spirits  who  inhabit  the  universe  of  their 
Maker  and  Master  are  around  us.  I  know  that  they  sug- 
gest thoughts,  whisper  memories  and  hopes,  talk  to  us, 
but,  alas !  not  with  us.  I  ask  them — and  they  answer  not. 
I  beseech  them,  and  they  make  no  reply.  I  talk  to  them. 
They  talk  to  me.  But  there  is  no  question  and  response. 
I  question  the  shadows  as  well  as  the  sunlight,  the  storm 
as  well  as  the  evening  breath  of  balm,  but  until  I  put  off 
this  clothing  of  the  earth  that  is  so  earthy,  I  have  no  hope 
for  spiritual  converse. 

But  Faith  lies  sleeping  in  the  thicket,  and  I  get  on  but 
slowly  with  her  story.  How  old  she  would  be  now  if  she 
had  lived  !  More  than  a  hundred  years,  if  I  remember 
the  date  aright.  It  was,  I  think,  1772  or  thereabouts. 
That  was  when  Jonathan  Trumbull  was  Governor  of  Con- 
necticut. They  were  stirring  times,  and  the  farmers  along 
the  coast  knew  something  of  the  vicissitudes  of  war.  For 
the  French  and  Spanish  quarrel  had  brought  trouble  and 
sorrow,  with  some  loss,  into  the  Connecticut  homes.  One 
can  hardly  imagine  how  people  lived  here  in  those  times. 
The  farmer's  family,  over  yonder  in  the  heart  of  the  coun- 
try, had  but  little  communication  with  the  world.  New 
York  was  weeks  away,  Boston  as  far,  and  neither  New 
York  nor  Boston  was  of  special  account  as  a  place  of 
news  in  those  days.  New  London  was  a  much  more  im- 
portant port  to  the  people  hereabouts  than  any  city  on 
this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  Old  London  was  months  dis- 
tant. The  government  was  far  off,  but  it  began  to  be  felt 
about  this  time.  I  wonder  whether  the  farmer's  daughter 
wasted  much  time  in  thinking  of  the  queen,  if  there  was  a 


170  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

queen — and  I  can  not  stop  now  to  remember  whether 
there  was.  Did  the  young  girl  weave  romances  about  her 
"  sovereign  lady  ?"  It  seems  odd  to  think  of  a  New  En- 
gland girl  looking  up  to  the  British  throne  for  the  example 
of  all  that  was  womanly,  and  teaching  herself  loyalty  to 
the  king's  wife  beyond  the  sea.  Let  us  not  wonder.  We 
will  tell  our  own  story  about  her,  and  believe  it  as  we  tell 
it.  It  is  just  as  well  so.  What,  after  all,  is  the  need  of 
knowledge  in  such  matters  ?  I  like  not  this  way  men  have 
of  demanding  proof  of  every  thing  before  they  believe  it. 
Her  name  was  Faith,  and  I  tell  you  faith  is  the  substance 
of  things  that  we  wish.  Men  go  prowling  around  a  story, 
a  tradition,  a  history,  and  demand  evidence  of  every  state- 
ment, pick  flaws  in  every  weak  place,  and  refuse  to  be- 
lieve except  they  have  evidence,  and  believe  when  they 
think  they  have  it.  And  yet  the  fundamental  point  in 
evidence  is  faith.  Nothing  can  be  proved  without  taking 
for  the  starting-point  blind,  absolute  faith.  Forgetting 
this  is  the  blunder  that  men  are  making  in  their  rational- 
istic theories  about  the  Bible  and  the  Christian  religion. 
They  attempt  to  overthrow,  and  some  of  them  to  their 
own  satisfaction  do  overthrow,  the  Bible  as  a  rule  of  faith 
and  practice,  and  as  a  history  too,  because  they  demand 
evidence  which  is  sufficient  to  satisfy  them,  and  say  they 
can  not  find  it.  Why,  man,  your  own  existence  is  known 
to  you  only  by  faith.  Feeling  is  faith.  Seeing  is  faith. 
Hearing  is  faith.  Every  sense  you  have  depends  on  faith. 
You  say  a  man  said  "Yes."  I  deny  it,  and  say  that  he 
said  "  No."  You  say  you  heard  it.  I  deny  that  you  even 
have  the  sense  of  hearing.  You  only  imagine  you  hear. 
You  say  you  saw  him  speak.  I  deny  it ;  you  only  imagine 
you  saw  him  speak.  You  have  no  hearing — no  senses ; 
you  do  not  exist  at  all:  your  body  is  a  myth;  your  local 


FAITH.  171 

existence  is  a  pure  fancy ;  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a 
man,  a  world,  a  universe.  If  it  does  exist,  it  is  all  but  a 
microscopic  affair ;  its  size  is  no  larger  than  the  millionth 
part  of  a  drop  of  water,  within  which  millions  of  animal- 
cules live  their  lives  and  die  their  deaths  as  you  and  I  do. 
How  can  you  prove  that  all  this  is  false  ?  Why,  only  by 
your  faith.  You  must  take  something  on  trust,  you  must 
believe  something  on  blind  faith,  in  every  attempt  of  hu- 
man reason,  as  the  foundation  of  every  argument,  on 
every  subject  on  earth  or  in  the  world  of  spirits.  And 
who  are  you,  rationalist,  infidel,  liberal  reasoner,  whatever 
you  call  yourself,  who  are  you  to  tell  me  how  much  or  how 
little  I  am  to  take  on  faith  ?  This  truth  that  I  am  teach- 
ing you  is  as  old  as  the  Aristotleian  days ;  it  is  the  old 
truth  that  has  been  hurled  in  the  teeth  of  rationalists  in 
every  century  since  the  jargon  at  Babel,  and  yet  there  are 
always  men  who  go  about  the  world  ridiculing  faith  and 
preaching  the  age  of  reason.  I  would  rather  believe  every 
thing  that  is  not  harder  to  believe  than  to  disbelieve. 
This  much  I  do  ;  I  take  it  on  blind  faith,  absolute,  indis- 
putable, that  this  Book  is  the  word  of  God,  inspired  of 
God,  and  I  defy  the  stoutest  reasoner  of  all  the  modern 
schools  to  make  me  doubt  that,  any  more  than  I  should 
doubt  my  own  existence. 

In  the  great  contest  now  and  always  going  on  in  the 
world,  the  defenders  of  the  faith,  good  men  who  strike 
boldly  for  the  truth,  nevertheless  allow  themselves  to  be 
led  off  from  their  vantage-ground  by  the  rationalists. 
They  are  eager  to  defend,  but  they  go  down  into  the  open 
field  of  reason  with  the  men  who  attack  them,  and  lose 
half  the  battle  by  so  doing.  Their  shield  is  faith.  The 
breastwork  behind  which  they  fight  is  faith.  Let  them 
stand  there,  and  no  rationalist  can  touch  them  with  any 


172  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

weapon.  The  answer  to  all  arguments  of  skepticism  is 
"I  believe."  "Why  do  I  believe"  did  you  ask,  my  ra- 
tionalistic friend  ?  Ah,  my  dear  sir,  faith  is  the  gift  of 
God.  I  am  not  one  of  your  sort  who  go  about  bothering 
for  reasons.  I  believe.  You  laugh  at  me  ?  I  can  stand 
that.  You  sneer  ?  I  can  stand  that.  You  know  nothing 
of  the  sublime  meaning  of  the  words  "  I  believe."  All 
the  results  of  argument,  study,  laborious  investigation, 
human  reason,  can  but  produce  in  the  human  mind  this 
conviction,  to  wit,  "  I  think ;"  or  possibly  this,  "  For  the 
present  and  until  further  investigation  show  other  truths  I 
believe."  But  that  is  not  faith.  I  would  give  more  for 
the  simple  operation  of  a  child's  mind  who  says,  "  I  be- 
lieve it  because  my  mother  told  me  so,"  than  for  your 
firmest  convictions  based  on  the  most  patient  investiga- 
tions and  the  universal  concord  of  the  schools.  If  the 
good  men  of  our  day  who  are  fighting  this  battle  with  ra- 
tionalism, would  but  intrench  themselves  in  the  citadel  of 
faith,  the  contest  would  cease.  Rationalism  could  not 
approach  them.  Nor  would  it,  in  that  case,  gain  so  many 
of  the  uneducated  people  of  the  world.  For  faith  is  ten- 
fold more  winning  than  reason.  A  man  who  believes  and 
shows  that  he  believes  is  more  powerful  than  one  who 
reasons,  and  shows  himself  ready  to  abandon  his  faith 
when  he  hears  better  reasons. 

In  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life  few  men  believe  because 
of  reason.  Faith,  in  the  commonest  subjects,  is  without 
reason.  If  one  were  asked  why  he  believed  in  the  con- 
quests of  Alexander  the  Great,  he  would  reply  because  of 
history.  But  his  faith  in  historical  accounts  is  not  faith 
based  on  reason  or  evidence.  On  the  contrary,  it  would 
not  take  five  minutes  to  show  him  that  a  few  old  manu- 
scripts, not  dating  very  far  back,  hunted  out  and  printed 


VAITH   OF   CICERO.  173 

in  the  fifteenth  century,  form  but  a  loose  basis  for  "  rea- 
sonable "  faith.  Nevertheless  his  faith  is  not  shaken  by 
discovering  how  weak  is  its  foundation  in  reason.  It  is 
far  easier  to  show  men  that  they  have  no  ground  for  be- 
lieving the  accepted  history  of  Greece  and  Rome,  than  to 
overthrow  the  trustworthiness  of  the  histories  bearing  the 
names  of  Matthew,  Mark,  Luke,  and  John ;  but  men  will 
believe  the  profane  history  in  spite  of  arguments  which 
show  that  it  lacks  evidence,  and  men  will  believe  the  sa- 
cred history  though  all  the  powers  of  reason  seek  to  un- 
dermine their  faith. 

Here  then  is  a  mental  force,  faculty,  action,  call  it  what 
you  will,  which  is  not  within  the  understanding  of  ration- 
alism, and  with  which  it  has  no  weapons  to  deal.  The 
grandeur  of  the  position,  "  I  believe  that  I  am  immortal," 
is  above  the  appreciation  of  reason,  beyond  the  province 
of  reason  even  to  attack.  You  who  think  reason  the 
highest  faculty  of  the  human  soul  have  to  learn  that  there 
is  yet  a  higher,  namely,  faith  which  is  the  gift  of  God.  I 
know  none  higher,  since  it  smiles  serenely  at  impotent 
reason,  it  alone  takes  hold  of  the  supernatural,  and  brings 
the  unseen  and  eternal  within  the  inspection,  the  knowl- 
edge, the  affection,  the  devotion  of  humanity. 

Sneer  at  this  faith  of  mine  if  you  will,  for  surely  I  care 
not  now  and  shall  not  care  hereafter.  I  say  with  Cicero, 
"  Quod  si  in  hoc  erro  (quod  animos  hominum  immortales 
esse  credam),  libentur  erro ;  nee  mihi  hunc  errorem  quo 
delector,  dum  vivo  extorqueri  volo ;  sin  mortuus  (ut  qui- 
dam  minuti  philosophi  censent)  nihil  sentiam,  non  vereor 
ne  hunc  errorem  meum  mortui  philosophi  irrideant." 

In  yonder  thicket  is  a  grave.  The  headstone  tells  me 
that  a  young  girl  was  buried  there  a  hundred  years  ago. 
Do  you  want  proof  that  the  headstone  tells  the  truth  ? 


174  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

Dig  down  and  you  will  find  no  dust  of  humanity  there. 
You  will  doubt  whether  it  ever  was  there ;  I  will  still  be- 
lieve it  was.  I  think  the  dust  that  was  once  fair  human- 
ity, blue  eyes  and  ruddy  cheeks,  white  breasts  and  rosy 
fingers,  has  grown  up  in  flowers  and  leaves  of  trees,  and 
has  gone  wandering  on  the  winds  of  heaven ;  and  I  be- 
lieve— I  want  none  of  your  reasoning — I  believe  because 
the  book  of  my  faith  tells  me  so,  that  that  dust  once  held 
enshrined  an  immortal  soul,  that  now  lives  and  will  live 
when  there  will  be  no  more  sun  and  sea.  And  I  believe 
too  that  the  day  will  come  when  God,  sitting  on  his  white 
throne,  will  call  that  wandering  dust  from  distant  hills  and 
valleys,  gathering  dust  to  dust  again,  and  that  the  young 
girt  will  stand  up  fair  and  beautiful  by  the  stream,  and 
pass  to  the  place  appointed  for  her.  And  this  I  believe, 
just  as  I  believe  from  the  words  on  the  head-stone  that  she 
was  buried  there  after  eighteen  years  of  life  in  the  old 
times,  when  Jonathan  Trumbull  was  Governor  of  Connec- 
ticut. That  is  faith.  You  need  not  argue  about  it.  I 
take  it  on  faith,  and  am  content.  More  content,  I  ven- 
ture to  say,  than  you  are  with  any  results  of  your  reason- 
ing. Nay,  you  have  no  results.  Reason  only  leads  you 
to  the  point  that  all  is  doubtful.  You  can  be  sure  of 
nothing,  except  by  taking  something  as  true  on  blind  faith. 

But  for  that  faith  what  sad  and  solemn  memories  would 
those  be,  which  are  now  bright  and  cheerful,  of  the  be- 
loved ones  who  rest  in  peace. 

In  the  years  that  are  gone  many  times  I  have  fished 
that  stream  and  other  streams  in  company  with  two 
brothers  and  a  sister,  in  whose  holy  memory  I  have  writ- 
ten every  word  of  this  book.  There  is  nothing  left  of 
them  here  but  memory.  It  is  very  beautiful.  They  rest 
in  peace.  That  is  the  word  ! 


PEACE.  175 

It  was  the  word  that  I  found  on  the  grave-stone  of  the 
girl  Faith  in  the  thicket  by  the  trout-brook.  It  is  the  word 
which  every  mountain-brook,  every  breaking  ripple  on  a 
lake-shore,  every  voice  of  the  wind  whispers  to  the  angler 
who  goes  along  thinking  of  companions  that  are  gone. 
Over  all  the  tempestuous  waves  of  human  sorrow  it  comes 
with  the  melody  of  his  voice,  and  the  waves  obey  him. 
There  is  no  better  illustration  of  the  manner  in  which 
heaven-expecting  men  in  all  ages  have  longed  for  peace, 
have  prized  it  and  sought  it  as  a  blessing  to  poor  human- 
ity, than  is  found  in  the  fact  that  from  the  remotest  times 
in  the  East  it  has  been  the  burden  of  those  salutations,  as 
we  call  them,  which  men  exchange.  More  than  thirty 
centuries  ago,  when  Jacob  met  the  servants  of  Laban  he 
inquired,  "  Is  it  peace  with  him  ?"  For  such  is  the  cor- 
rect rendering  of  the  Hebrew  which  in  our  version  is  trans- 
lated "  Is  it  well  with  him  ?"  When  Moses  met  Jethro 
they  inquired  after  one  another's  peace.  And  to  this  day 
in  the  Oriental  countries  the  common  salutation  is  the 
blessing  "  Peace  be  with  you,"  and  the  answer  "  Be  it 
peace." 

In  old  times  it  was  a  word  that  seemed  to  belong  emi- 
nently to  our  faith.  We  do  not  find  it  often  in  Greek  and 
Roman  authors,  nor  did  they  seem  to  look  to  it  as  the 
blessing  of  this  or  the  joy  of  the  other  life. 

Horace  bade  Dellius 

"  ./Equam  memento  rebus  in  arduis 
Servare  mentem — " 

Because  an  equable  temper  of  mind  and  life  was,  in  his 
opinion,  best  suited  to  men  who  looked  forward  only  to 
exile  beyond  an  unknown  sea : 


176  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

"  Omnes  eodem  cogimur  :  omnium 
Versatur  urna ;  serius,  ocius 
Sors  exitura,  et  nos  in  asternum 
Exilium  impositura  cymbae." 

But  the  Christian  fathers  loved  to  ring  the  changes  on 
the  word. 

Bernard  wrote  :  "  Quid  dabis  nobis  Domine  ?  Pacem, 
inquit,  do  vobis,  pacem  meam  relinqui  vobis.  Sufficit 
mihi  Domine !  Gratanter  suscipio  quod  relinquis.  Pa- 
cem enim  volo,  pacem  desidero  nee  aliquid  amplius  quae- 
ro.  Cui  non  sufficit  pax,  non  sufficis  tu  Domine,  qui  es 
pax  vera,  pax  nostra." 

Augustine  said  :  "  Pax  est  serenitas  mentis,  tranquilitas 
animi,  simplicitas  cordis,  vinculum  amoris,  consortium  ca- 
ritatis." 

Jerome,  writing  of  how  hard  it  is  to  attain,  said  :  "  Pax 
querenda  est  ut  bella  fugiamus,  nee  sufficiat  earn  querere 
nisi  inventam  fugientem  que  omni  studio  persequamur." 

Isidorus  described  it :  "  Pax  est  plebis  sanitas,  gloria 
sacerdotis,  patriae  letitia,  et  terror  hostium  visibilium  et 
invisibilium." 

Ambrose  said :  "  Pax  est  dux  at  vitam  eternam  inveni- 
endam  et  habendam." 

Thus  they  all  spoke  of  the  peace  that  blesses  the  soul 
here,  but  of  the  peace  that  is  there  they  were  never  weary 
of  talking  and  writing,  in  ever-varying  phrases  of  joyful 
expectancy.  Bernard  of  Clugny,  the  monk  who  contrast- 
ed this  world's  sins  with  that  world's  glories,  summed  it 
all  up  in  the  lines, 

"  Pax  sine  crimine,  pax  sine  turbine,  pax  sine  rixa 
Meta  laboribus,  atque  tumultibus  anchora  fixa." 

Who   that  has  studied  the  numerous  epitaphs  of  the 


IRENE    IN    PACE.  177 

early  Christian  era  which  have  been  found  in  the  Roman 
Catacombs  and  elsewhere,  has  failed  to  notice  how  fre- 
quently the  word  was  used  there  to  give  expression  to 
the  dearest  hope  of  the  Christian  living  for  the  Christian 
dead. 

Lounging  along  the  Vatican  Gallery  one  day  I  was 
struck  with  the  double  use  of  the  word  in  one  of  the  old 
steles  from  the  Catacombs.  IRENE  IN  PACE.  Her  name 
was  peace,  and  she  rests  in  peace.  Irene  has  been  at 
peace  well  -  nigh  two  thousand  years.  Who  was  Irene  ? 
Little  matters  it  now  on  earth,  but  this  I  read  on  the 
stone,  that  life  was  then  as  now  somewhat  stormy,  some- 
what tiresome,  somewhat  wearying.  Then  as  now,  the 
young  and  gentle,  the  old  and  worn,  longed  for  repose. 
Then  as  now,  the  voice  of  affection  hushed  the  wailing  of 
sorrow  with  that  tender  whisper,  peace,  peace. 

It  was  a  word  that  men  loved,  even  in  old  Rome. 
And  when  the  hand  of  affection  would  trace  the  utmost 
of  consolation  over  the  grave  of  the  dead  Irene,  it  was 
only  able  to  say,  she  is  at  peace !  No  more  struggling 
or  sorrowing,  no  more  working  or  wearying,  no  more 
sleepless  nights  and  agonizing  days.  Did  she  live  in  the 
stormy  times  of  the  early  kings  ?  It  matters  not,  for  she 
is  at  peace.  Did  she  sit  watching  by  the  window  for  a 
coming  footstep  from  the  North,  in  the  days  when  the 
great  Julius  fought  in  Gaul,  and  waiting  vainly,  did  she 
die  of  lonesomeness  ?  It  avails  nothing  to  know,  for  she 
has  long  lain  at  peace.  O  blessed  word,  that  Roman 
mothers  whispered  over  their  children,  whose  sound  yet 
thrills  the  hearts  of  sad  women  and  world-worn  men,  the 
word  that  sums  up  all  the  hopes  of  the  mortal,  all  the  im- 
aginations of  immortal  joys ! 

M 


X. 

AMONG  THE  FRANCONIA  MOUNTAINS. 

THE  dawn  was  not  yet  visible  over  Eagle  Cliff  when  I 
awoke,  and,  opening  my  window,  stepped  out  on  the  bal- 
cony. The  silence  which  held  possession  of  the  valley 
was  profound.  There  was  no  voice  of  any  kind  of  life, 
nor  was  there  a  breath  of  wind  stirring  tree  or  leaf. 
More  than  six  hundred  persons  were  sleeping  in  the 
Profile  House  and  its  surrounding  buildings,  but  for 
aught  that  was  audible  the  Franconia  notch  might  have 
been  as  desolate  as  it  was  two  hundred  years  ago. 

The  early  morning  is  to  me  the  most  charming  portion 
of  a  mountain  day.  I  blame  no  one  for  sleeping  late. 
The  luxury  of  that  half- sleeping  half- waking  hour,  the 
only  time  when  one  knows  he  is  asleep,  and  appreciates 
it,  is  beyond  all  dispute.  No  one  has  clung  to  it  more 
tenaciously  than  I.  In  town,  where  waking  is  waking  to 
the  rough  sounds  of  the  city,  to  morning  smoke  and  rat- 
tling milk-wagons  and  shrieking  hucksters,  and  the  thou- 
sand indications  that  the  feeding  of  the  beasts  is  the  first 
thing  in  a  New  York  morning  before  work  commences, 
I,  too,  have  kept  my  head  to  the  pillow  with  exceeding 
comfort  in  the  consciousness  that  I  was  asleep,  and  great 
satisfaction  in  the  thousand  times  reiterated  assurance 
that  I  need  not  wake  yet. 

But  in  travel   and   in  the   mountains   and  forests  the 


MORNING   ON    ECHO    LAKE.  179 

early  morning  is  more  delicious  out  of  doors  than  in  bed. 
True,  it  is  always  a  subject  of  brief  argument.  When 
one  first  wakes  he  says  this  is  pleasant,  to  lie  here  both 
awake  and  asleep,  but  is  it  not  pleasanter  to  be  outside 
and  broad  awake  ;  and  I  seldom  fail  to  settle  the  argu- 
ment before  the  sun  comes  up  to  throw  light  on  it. 

The  most  lasting  memories  of  scenery  appear  to  me 
those  which  one  has  of  early  morning  views.  Sunlight 
and  broad  daylight  have  a  sameness  that  seldom  makes 
an  impression.  We  remember  scenes  in  them,  but  we 
do  not  remember  or  take  much  note  of  the  lights  on  the 
scenes.  Dawn  is  always  beautiful,  and  one  is  seldom 
like  the  dawn  of  any  other  day.  This  variety  in  an 
event  which  is  forever  occurring  and  re-occurring  in  ev- 
ery twenty-four  hours  is  something  wonderful.  Even  if 
each  day  of  a  long  series  be  clear  and  cloudless,  there  is 
still  something  different  each  morning  in  the  shade  of 
light  and  in  the  line  of  its  direction.  To-day  the  first 
ray  will  brighten  like  the  northern  streamers  through 
yonder  gap  in  the  mountain  ridge.  To-morrow  the  first 
silver  stream  will  glide  like  a  dream  around  the  other 
side  of  the  peak.  Now  it  will  come  pouring  down  on 
the  still  beauty  of  Echo  Lake  from  the  one  side  of  La- 
fayette, and  another  day  it  will  flash  suddenly  into  the 
valley  through  the  rift  near  the  Eagle  Cliffs.  Morning 
after  morning  you  will  have  watched  the  mountain-tops 
to  see  which  one  first  welcomes  the  coming  light,  and 
you  will  have  made  up  your  mind  that  there  is  an  old-es- 
tablished affection  between  the  Dawn  and  Cannon  Mount- 
ain, when  lo  !  this  morning  you  will  see  the  dark  masses 
of  rock  and  the  wild  ruin  of  forest  that  lies  dead,  and 
terrible  in  death,  on  the  Artist's  Bluff,  gloomy,  fierce, 
tangled,  looking  like  the  matted  hair  of  a  black-browed 


l8o  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

giant  slumbering  away  a  night  of  drunkenness,  you  will 
see  this  monster's  forehead  grow  suddenly  serene  and 
holy  as  the  white  fingers  of  the  morning  wander  among 
the  shaggy  locks  of  his  brown  hair,  and  day  bends  down 
lovingly  over  him,  first  of  all  the  sleepers,  and  blesses  his 
drunken  slumber  with  her  pure  kiss. 

If  you  never  saw  mountains  wake  out  of  the  darkness 
when  the  morning  is  yet  far  off,  you  have  something  to 
see  in  this  world  yet. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  a  night  on  the  Mediterranean,  when 
the  steamer  went  plunging  northward  before  a  fierce 
sirocco,  and  all  the  sea  and  sky  in  the  blackness  of  the 
darkness  were  hideously  confused  and  confounded.  I 
stood  on  deck,  with  the  spray  going  over  me  at  every 
roll  of  the  ship,  while  now  and  then  a  monster  came  up 
to  the  stern  and  hissed  as  he  sent  his  blue  folds  over  the 
deck,  and  the  ship  quivered  and  moaned.  All  around 
there  was  nothing  visible  but  this  wild  confusion  of  black- 
ness, out  of  which  the  waves  lifted  up  their  hands,  and 
the  floods  called  in  tones  of  thunder.  And  then,  sudden- 
ly as  if  a  star  had  broken  through  clouds,  high  up  in  the 
eastern  sky  there  was  a  vision  of  something  white  and 
pure  and  holy  that  was  indeed  only  a  star  at  first,  but 
grew  rapidly  into  a  greater  form,  and  shone  as  moonlight 
shines  on  a  distant  ripple  of  the  sea,  and  then  another 
and  another  and  another  white  light  came  out  of  the 
gloom,  and  at  last  the  great  white  waves  of  snow-clad 
Lebanon  rolled  along  the  eastern  horizon. 

The  proper  way  for  one  who  loves  fine  scenery  to  be- 
gin the  day  here  is  to  go  at  daylight  to  Echo  Lake,  and 
he  should  be  on  Profile  Lake  at  and  after  sunset.  In 
both  cases  he  will  be  nearly  alone.  On  Echo  Lake  I 
have  never  yet  met  a  human  being  before  seven  in  the 


EVENING   ON    PROFILE    LAKE.  l8l 

morning,  and  I  have  seen  the  day  grow  into  full  light 
there  a  hundred  times.  On  Profile  Lake  during  the  aft- 
ernoon all  the  boats  are  out,  and  noisy  groups  of  happy 
people  are  scattered  here  and  there  until  toward  seven 
o'clock.  Then  you  will  generally  see  only  three  boats, 
my  friend  Dupont's,  that  of  Mr.  C ,  and  my  own. 

Nor  will  either  of  us  disturb  the  silence  in  which  you 
will  best  enjoy  the  wonderful  solemnity  of  beauty  which 
surrounds  you.  As  in  the  morning  the  mountain-top  first 
met  the  fair  face  of  the  young  day,  so  in  the  evening  the 
mountain-tops  are  last  to  sink  into  darkness,  but  they  do 
not  seem  to  be  the  same  mountains.  They  were  joyous 
then,  for  day  came  pure  and  white  and  stainless.  They 
are  sombre  and  gloomy  and  profoundly  sad  in  the  even- 
ing when  they  see  day  going  down  in  the  West,  her  face 
red  with  passion  or  flushed  with  wine.  For  oh  man  ! 
never  went  day  to  rest  unstained — never  was  Morning 
born  so  pure  that  she  retained  herself  in  purity  till  the 
setting  of  the  sun — never  yet  came  Daughter  of  the  East 
with  chariot  wheels  of  silver,  a  fair  and  noble  maiden, 
worth  love  and  winning  love,  that  she  did  not  go  away 
in  clouds,  with  torn  garments  or  in  blushing  shame. 

I  said  we  would  not  disturb  you.  You  must  have  quick 

ears  to  hear  any  sound  when  either  C or  Dupont 

throw  fifty  feet  of  line  on  the  lake,  for  they  use  light  rods, 
and  there  is  an  absolute  perfection  of  beauty  in  the 
curves  described  by  their  lines.  Now  and  then  the  sharp 
rise  and  swirl  of  a  trout  may  attract  your  attention  for  an 
instant  as  one  or  another  strikes  him,  but  go  on  thinking 
while  we  go  on  fishing.  If,  indeed,  you  be  an  angler,  join 
us  and  welcome,  for  then  it  is  known  to  you  that  no  man 
is  in  perfect  condition  to  enjoy  scenery  unless  he  have  a 
fly-rod  in  his  hand  and  a  fly-book  in  his  pocket. 


182  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

I  stood  on  the  balcony  of  my  window  and  waited  for 
the  coming  of  the  day.  For  I  had  agreed,  the  evening 
previous,  with  my  artist  friend  the  Baron,  to  go  in  the 
early  morning  over  the  lower  slope  of  Cannon  Mountain 
into  the  forest  and  pass  two  days  there,  he  to  make  studies 
of  ancient  birch-trees  and  masses  of  moss  and  groups  of 
fallen  monarchs  of  the  forest  which  lay  there  around,  and 
I  to  kill  time  as  I  best  might  on  a  certain  wild  lake 
known  only  to  a  few  of  us. 

Long  before  the  sun  was  visible  over  the  cliffs  we  were 
off  and  climbing  the  steep  mountain-side.  The  first  ray 
of  sunshine  fell  on  us  half-way  up  the  hill,  and  lit  the 
ragged  sides  of  an  ancient  birch,  so  that  it  fairly  gleamed 
with  brown  and  gold,  while  in  the  middle  of  a  bright  spot 
of  bark  was  a  medallion  head  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  the 
work  of  a  worm  who  little  knew  what  he  was  about  in 
sculpture. 

From  the  road  to  the  lake  side  was  an  hour  and  a  half, 
chiefly  up  the  side  of  the  mountain.  The  lake  was  like  a 
picture— calm,  placid,  waiting  for  us.  Too  calm  for  trout, 
but  nevertheless  very  enticing. 

Dupont  and  myself,  who  have  for  many  years  fished 
these  waters  together,  had  sent  up  our  India-rubber  rafts 
(before  mentioned  in  this  volume),  and  had  used  them 
two  or  three  times  previously  on  the  lake,  leaving  them 
on  the  shore,  where,  in  this  wild  mountain  region,  they 
were  as  safe  as  if  locked  up  at  the  Profile  House. 

Hiram  and  Frank  (our  men)  set  themselves  at  once  to 
work  on  a  bark  camp  for  the  night,  and  after  determining 
on  its  location  and  suggesting  some  ideas  in  the  archi- 
tecture, I  "blew  up"  my  raft  and  went  a-fishing. 

A  year  previous,  on  the  same  day  of  the  month,  the  Bar- 
on and  myself,  with  a  friend,  had  discovered  trout  in  this 


FLAVOR    OF    TROUT.  183 

lake,  and  killed  a  fine  lot  of  large  fish.  We  brought  into 
the  Profile  House  that  evening  forty-five  fish,  weighing 
thirty-nine  pounds.  Every  one  of  those  forty-five  fish  was 
taken  on  a  scarlet  ibis  or  a  white  moth.  They  would  not 
rise  to  any  other  fly.  A  year  had  passed,  the  day  was 
precisely  similar  in  weather  and  atmosphere,  but  no  trout, 
large  or  small,  would  rise  to  either  of  those  flies.  Yet 
there  were  thousands  of  trout  in  the  lake,  as  I  knew  well. 
I  tried  several  flies  of  the  sort  usually  best  suited  to  these 
waters,  but  could  not  get  a  rise.  I  began  to  despair.  At 
length  I  put  on  for  the  stretcher  a  small  fly,  tied  for  me 
at  Inverness  —  a  crimson  body,  with  shining  jet-black 
wings,  each  wing  tipped  with  pure  white.  At  the  first 
cast  of  that  fly  up  came  the  first  trout,  a  half-pounder. 
To  this  fly  the  small  trout  rose  freely.  But  no  large  fish 
would  be  coaxed  up.  I  took  a  dozen  fair-sized  fish,  and 
then  drifted  idly  about  the  lake  till  noon.  The  Baron 
was  off  in  the  forest,  and  would  not  be  in  camp  till  even- 
ing. I  had  nothing  to  do  but  fish  or  study  the  forest  and 
the  lake.  Fishing  was  without  object,  since  I  had  already 
taken  all  that  we  could  eat,  and  if  I  took  more  they  would 
not  be  fresh  the  next  day. 

I  never  attempt  to  send  trout  from  the  forest  to  friends 
in  town,  excepting  when  I  have  a  special  request  from 
some  one  who  desires  them.  A  trout  is  seldom  fit  to  eat 
the  day  after  he  is  taken.  In  the  city  we  know  nothing 
about  the  true  flavor  of  this  delicate  fish,  and  hence  many 
persons  are  surprised  at  the  high  praise  bestowed  on  them. 
It  is  not  so  strange  that  a  good  taste  pronounces  trout,  as 
ordinarily  found  in  the  city,  or  received  there  in  ever  so 
careful  packing,  an  inferior  fish  for  the  table.  There  are 
a  dozen  varieties  of  fish  in  the  New  York  market  which 
are  better  than  trout  can  ever  be  there. 


184  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

The  flavor  of  trout  varies  in  various  waters.  Where 
streams  run  through  much  low  ground  and  forest,  or 
through  bog-land,  and  where  lakes  have  muddy  bottoms, 
with  dead  and  decaying  wood  in  the  water,  the  fishy  in- 
habitants are  apt  to  have  what  we  call  a  woody  flavor. 
This  is  not  always  the  case.  I  have  taken  trout  of  very 
fine,  pure  flavor  from  the  worst  looking  water,  but  not  often. 
A  woody  trout,  if  eaten  at  all,  should  be  eaten  within  a  few 
hours  after  he  is  taken.  It  is  practically  impossible  to 
send  such  trout  to  a  distant  city,  or  to  preserve  them  in  ice 
for  many  hours.  The  unpleasant  flavor  increases  rapidly. 

The  best  of  trout  suffer  by  keeping,  even  in  ice  ;  and  I 
strongly  advise  those  who  go  a-fishing  in  distant  parts  to 
kill  no  more  fish  than  they  can  eat,  and  to  forego  the  pleas- 
ure of  sending  evidences  of  their  success  to  friends,  who 
may  possibly  be  convinced  of  the  fish  stories  they  have 
heard  by  the  sight  of  the  "  speckled  beauties,"  but  who, 
if  their  taste  be  educated,  can  not  enjoy  the  result. 

Why  should  I  kill  any  more  trout  on  that  day  ?  I  had 
five  or  six  pounds,  enough  for  three  of  us,  with  the  addi- 
tions to  our  dinner  which  Hiram's  pack  contained,  and 
here  was  the  lake  from  which  we  were  as  sure  of  taking 
our  breakfast  as  if  it  were  a  kit  of  salt  mackerel. 

So  I  went  up  to  the  head  of  the  lake,  where  a  brook 
comes  in  over  a  white  gravel  bed,  pure  and  clear  and 
cold,  and,  lying  down  on  the  beach  in  the  soft  sunshine, 
dreamed  away  the  day.  The  night  came  on  us  with 
clouds,  and  the  sounds  of  wind  in  the  higher  forests  on 
the  mountain  sides.  We  made  the  camp-fire  broad  and 
high.  Vast  pine  and  birch  logs,  ten  feet  long  and  two 
feet  thick,  which  with  great  labor  Hiram  had  cut  and 
rolled  together,  blazed  high  in  the  edge  of  the  forest,  and 
poured  a  rich  light  over  the  lake.  Far  out  on  the  water 


OLD    FRIENDS.  185 

I  could  see  now  and  then  the  dip  and  lift  of  a  lily  pad, 
gleaming  like  a  ruby.  The  Baron  had  been  all  day  sketch- 
ing, but  had  come  in  at  dusk,  hung  his  sketches  here  and 
there  on  trees,  and,  as  we  both  had  good  appetites,  we 
dined  sumptuously.  Then  we  talked  by  the  camp-fire  for 
a  while,  and  then  he  threw  himself  down  on  the  balsam 
boughs  under  the  bark  shelter,  and  slept  in  peace. 

While  memory  is  aroused  so  frequently  by  similarities 
of  time  and  place,  it  is  sometimes  excited  by  the  very  re- 
verse state  of  facts,  the  total  dissimilarity.  I  thought  of 
camp-fires  like  this  by  which  I  had  slept  in  other  days, 
but  these  thoughts  were  brief,  rapid,  evanescent  as  the 
tall  flames  of  the  fire,  leaping  into  light  and  vanishing  to 
be  followed  by  others  in  quick  succession.  And  then,  as 
I  lay  down  with  my  head  resting  on  a  birch  log  waiting 
to  be  burned,  the  wind  all  gone,  save  only  as  I  heard  the 
sound  far  off  on  Cannon  Mountain,  the  great  fire  sinking 
slowly  till  the  heap  of  glowing  logs  gave  out  few  flames, 
and  the  red  light  shone  on  the  trunks  of  great  trees  about 
me,  I  found  myself  surrounded  by  a  group  of  swarthy- 
faced  men,  with  dark  and  flashing  eyes,  on  whose  every 
countenance  I  saw  the  light  of  faithful  affection. 

I  am  not  quite  clear  that  there  was  any  very  remarkable 
coincidence  in  the  fact  that  these  old  Arab  friends  sur- 
rounded me  that  night,  and  that  on  my  return  to  the  Pro- 
file House  next  day  I  met  with  late  intelligence  from  them. 
Besides  the  general  truth  that  the  angler  has  opportunity 
to  think,  and  naturally,  when  alone  in  the  forest,  calls  his 
friends  around  him,  it  is  more  than  possible  that  a  re- 
mark made  by  a  passing  acquaintance  on  the  evening 
previous  had  led  to  this  assemblage.  For  a  gentleman 
recently  returned  from  Europe  and  the  East  had  said  to 
me,  "  I  met  your  friend  Steenburger  at  Alexandria.  He 


1 86  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

talked  of  coming  home  this  summer."  John  had  been 
some  years  absent,  and  latterly  had  neglected  his  corre- 
spondence, and  so  this  remark  had  set  me  to  thinking  of 
him  when  I  was  alone  in  the  woods,  and  it  was  natural 
enough  to  remember  our  Oriental  friends. 

In  what  little  travel  I  have  been  able  to  accomplish  in 
my  life,  I  have  made  more  warm  friendships,  and  won 
more  close  attachments  among  the  Mohammedans  than 
any  where  else.  Having  passed  among  them  but  little 
more  time  than  scores  of  other  travelers,  it  has  neverthe- 
less happened  to  me  to  form  pleasant  relations  with  men 
in  various  classes,  and  I  look  now  to  Egypt  and  Syria  as 
countries  in  which  I  have  warmer  friends  than  perhaps  in 
any  other  part  of  the  world  out  of  America, 

I  have  not  to  thank  myself  for  this.  There  was  one, 
who  was  always  with  me  in  visits  to  the  East,  whose  stead- 
fast kindness  and  loveliness  won  the  devotion  of  the  v/arm 
Arab  heart,  and  whose  memory  is  kept  green  on  the  Nile 
banks  and  in  the  Holy  City. 

And  these  sons  of  Ishmael  and  Esau,  dark-faced  men 
with  flashing  eyes,  gathered  around  me  that  night  in  the 
outer  edges  of  the  fire-light.  Sheik  Houssein  Ibn  Egid 
sat  there,  wrapped  in  his  black  cloth  cloak,  with  the  crim- 
son and  gold  caftan  shining  under  it.  Grand  old  son  of 
Abraham,  who  serves  always  when  I  read  my  Bible  as 
the  representative  of  the  patriarch,  for  I  have  no  doubt 
that  he  was  just  such  a  man  in  appearance,  and  in  walk 
and  manner  of  life.  His  keen  eye  does  not  any  longer 
look  from  the  hills  above  Wady  Mousa,  scanning  the  des- 
ert for  signs  of  the  enemy.  The  hand  which  was  so 
gentle,  yet  so  firm  on  the  rein  of  his  sorrel  mare,  the  hand 
which — as  I  once  heard  him  defiantly  tell  Mustapha  Kap- 
itan  to  tell  Said  Pasha — could  by  a  toss  in  the  air  of  a 


HASSANEIN.  187 

handful  of  dust  call  five  thousand  men  to  the  saddle, 
that  hand  is  lying  now  under  his  cheek,  and  the  grim  old 
warrior  sleeps  with  his  face  set  toward  Mecca.  I  remem- 
bered a  morning  in  the  City  of  Victory,  when  Sheik  Hous- 
sein  rode  by  Miriam  into  the  great  crowd  near  the  Suk 
Khalil,  where  Islam  by  myriads  waited  the  procession  of 
the  Makhmil,  and  where  in  other  years  no  Christian  face 
dared  show  itself.  But  the  slight  form  of  the  fair-faced 
American,  and  her  uncovered  countenance,  provoked  only 
silent  curses,  no  open  insult,  for  the  Bedouin  by  her  side 
was  the  terror  of  desert  and  city  alike,  and  no  man  or 
woman  dared  to  whisper  an  insult  to  her  in  his  presence. 

There  was  Abd-el-Kader,  the  most  polished  of  Oriental 
gentlemen,  who  ruled  with  great  skill  and  justice  the 
provinces  of  Upper  Egypt,  and  who,  after  accompanying 
the  British  army  on  the  Abyssinian  expedition,  returned 
to  Cairo  to  die,  just  before  I  had  hoped  to  take  his  hand 
there  and  thank  him  for  old  kindnesses. 

There  was  Yusef  of  Luxor,  sheik  of  the  old  mosque 
that  stands  near  the  ruined  temple,  who  is  one  of  the 
kindest  and  most  devout  yet  humble  followers  of  Moham- 
med ;  a  man  among  them  who  reminds  you  of  a  sincere 
and  earnest  country  minister  in  America,  seeking  good 
and  doing  good.  And  with  him  old  Mustapha — Mus- 
tapha  of  Luxor.  Who  that  has  been  there  does  not  know 
him  ?  And  as  these  men  of  Luxor  came  out  of  the  forest 
I  saw  a  crowd  of  darker  faces,  and — why — that  clear-cut 
face,  that  bright  keen  eye,  that  black  but  comely  counte- 
nance— surely  that  is  Hassanein  ! 

All  the  charm  of  the  angler's  life  would  be  lost  but  for 
these  hours  of  thought  and  memory.  All  along  a  brook, 
all  day  on  lake  or  river,  while  he  takes  his  sport  he  thinks. 
All  the  long  evenings  in  camp  or  cottage  or  inn  he  tells 


l88  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

stories  of  his  own  life,  hears  stories  of  his  friends'  lives, 
and  if  alone  calls  up  the  magic  of  memory. 

I  can  see  myself  now  as  that  night,  the  fire  blazing 
twenty  feet  high,  the  great  trunks  glowing  and  flashing, 
myself  lying  in  the  heap  of  logs  which  were  waiting  to  be 
burned,  comfortable,  having  lapsed  by  degrees  into  this 
and  that  hollow,  until  I  was  as  perfectly  supported  as  if 
lying  on  a  Damascus  diwan,  and  I  can  see  Hassanein  too, 
as  he  stood,  black  but  comely,  under  a  great  birch-tree  in 
the  edge  of  the  fire-light. 

I  was  drifting  one  night  down  the  moonlit  Nile,  my 
boatmen  having  just  finished  a  rough-and-tumble  fight 
with  the  Arabs  of  Saboa,  a  Nubian  village.  It  was  a 
night  of  exceeding  beauty  and  glory.  On  the  cabin  deck 
there  was  a  sofa,  cushioned  softly ;  and  on  that  I  lay  at 
night,  rolled  up  if  it  were  cold,  but  generally  with  only  my 
Syrian  cloak  around  me,  looking  up  at  the  stars  of  Egypt. 
That  night,  late  as  it  was,  I  could  not  sleep,  and  so  I  sat 
myself  down  to  think  of  the  ancient  splendor  of  the  Val- 
ley of  Lions,  and  gradually  falling  back  in  my  seat,  I  was 
at  length  lying  down  under  the  blue  sky,  and  the  voices 
of  the  angry  villagers  died  away  far  up  the  stream.  For 
a  half-hour  the  men  pulled  steadily  at  the  oars,  and  then, 
laying  them  in,  stowed  themselves  in  all  manner  of  curi- 
ous heaps  about  the  forward  deck,  and  sank  into  that 
deep  sleep  that  characterizes  the  Arabs,  while  the  boat 
swept  on  with  the  current,  her  head  now  up,  now  down 
the  stream,  now  east,  now  west,  and  only  the  dark  form 
of  Hassanein,  the  Nubian  pilot,  was  visible  above  the 
deck.  He  stood  firm  at  his  post,  holding  the  tiller ;  and 
I  could  see  his  quick  black  eye  flashing  like  a  star  as  he 
watched  the  shore  and  the  river. 

Hassanein  was  a  native  of  a  small  village  a  few  miles 


HASSANEIN.  189 

above  Es-Souan.  He  was  a  tall,  slightly-framed  Nubian, 
black  as  ink,  but  with  well-cut  features,  and  a  keen,  intel- 
ligent look  that  was  fully  up  to  the  mark  of  any  first  offi- 
cer I  have  ever  seen  on  a  Yankee  schooner.  Not  that  he 
was  as  quick  or  as  sharp  as  a  Yankee.  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
But  he  looked  so,  and  if  he  had  been  educated  in  Con- 
necticut he  would  have  been  so.  As  it  was,  he  was  the 
most  reliable  man  on  the  boat,  and  the  Reis  having  been 
in  disgrace  long  ago,  he  was  virtually  the  captain. 

There  was  a  touch  of  romance  about  him.  I  saw  that 
soon  after  he  came  on  board  at  the  Cataract,  and  I  was 
given  to  talking  with  him  when  the  opportunity  occurred, 
for  I  found  no  small  amount  of  information  about  the 
river  stowed  away  in  his  shaven  skull. 

"  Hassanein,"  I  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Ya,  Howadji,"  was  the  inquiring  response.  My  Ar- 
abic was  not  worth  mentioning,  and  Hassanein  never 
knew  a  word  of  English  till  we  taught  him  to  say  "good- 
morning,"  and  there  his  acquisitions  ended.  But  I  had 
acquired  a  knack  of  understanding  the  signs  which  they 
use  very  ably,  and  with  my  half-dozen  Arabic  words  to 
ask  questions,  and  my  ability  to  understand  some  others, 
I  could  maintain  a  tolerable  conversation  with  them. 

"  Have  you  a  wife,  Hassanein  ?" 

"I?     No,  Howadji." 

"  How  is  that  ?     Why  not  ?" 

Hassanein  sighed,  and  looked  down  on  the  deck.  I 
turned  over  on  my  sofa  and  looked  at  him,  and  thereby 
he  understood  that  I  waited  for  an  answer.  At  length  it 
came.  He  talked  slowly  at  first,  then  vehemently,  and  I 
lay  and  listened.  I  translated  what  he  said  somewhat  in 
this  wise : 

When  Hassanein  was  a  boy  he  was  very  much  like  oth- 


190  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

er  boys.  The  world  produces  not  dissimilar  specimens 
of  humanity  in  different  parts  of  its  rugged  surface.  Here 
was  a  boy  like  the  son  of  a  poor  farmer  in  America,  born 
to  poverty,  but  born  with  some  degree  of  hope  beyond  the 
small  circle  of  his  home — beyond  the  hills  that  inclosed 
'the  narrow  valley  of  the  Nile.  Why  not?  Is  there  any 
reason  why  an  Egyptian  boy  should  have  less  ambition 
now  than  had  one  who  led  the  armies  of  the  valley  across 
the  mountains  of  Syria  and  up  to  the  summits  of  Leba- 
non ?  Not  such,  however,  was  the  ambition  of  Hassanein. 
No  dreams  of  power  or  pomp  of  arms — no  thought  of 
gorgeous  halls  and  Aladdin  palaces  haunted  his  waking 
thoughts  or  sleeping  fancies.  Sometimes,  he  said,  there 
did  come  into  his  brain  a  strange,  wild  vision.  He  could 
not  describe  it.  He  did  not  understand  it  himself.  He 
only  remembered  that  when  a  passing  boat  brought  news 
to  the  village  of  the  splendor  of  Ibrahim  Pacha's  career, 
he  had  a  strange  impulse  to  go  with  him  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth,  and  he  went.  For  days  and  weeks  he  floated 
down  the  ancient  river  on  a  loaded  boat,  and  at  last 
reached  Cairo  and  saw  the  armies  of  the  great  warrior 
preparing  for  the  Syrian  campaign. 

I  did  not  fully  understand  in  what  capacity  Hassanein 
went  to  Syria.  It  was  not  as  a  soldier ;  perhaps  it  was 
as  servant  to  some  officer  of  the  armv.  Enough  that 

.-  o 

when  the  triumphant  march  took  place  through  the  Holy 
Land  he  went  along  the  way.  It  was  strange  to  hear 
him  speak  so  carelessly  of  places  that  are  so  renowned. 
It  was  pleasant  to  lie  and  hear  a  man  talk  of  Jerusalem 
and  the  plains  of  the  Holy  Land,  naming  them  indeed  by 
Arab  names,  but  names  that  I  had  already  learned  well, 
and  talking  of  them  only  as  illustrating  the  swift  career 
of  the  great  son  of  Mohammed  Ali. 


HASSANEIN.  19 1 

It  was  at  the  village  of  Jenin  on  the  plain  of  Jezreel 
that  the  Nubian  boy  lost  his  heart.  She  was  a  star,  that 
Syrian  girl,  and  to  him  as  unapproachable  as  any  star 
that  shines  above  us.  They  were  there  some  weeks,  and 
he  often  saw  her  at  the  well — the  spring  that  gushes  out 
so  gloriously  from  its  long  covered  passage  in  the  very 
centre  of  the  place.  He  would  sit  there  hours  to  see  her 
but  a  moment.  He  had  never  seen  the  faces  of  women 
before.  They  had  no  hesitation  in  permitting  his  glance 
there,  his  gaze;  and,  in  fact,  the  tall  dark-eyed  girl  learned 
with  a  girl's  quickness  to  look  for  his  admiration,  and  re- 
joiced in  lashing  the  poor  Nubian  boy  with  her  quick 
eyes  and  smiles. 

It  would  seem  too  much  like  a  love-story  were  I  to  tell 
you  of  his  writhings  under  that  delicious  torture.  It  was 
enough  for  him  to  learn  that  she  was  a  Nazarene,  one  of 
the  despised  and  hated  followers  of  Christ  (known  to  this 
day  as  Nazara),  to  feel  the  impossibility  of  calling  her  his 
wife  even  were  he  other  than  a  poor  Nubian.  He  was  a 
Mussulman,  believing  in  God  and  Mohammed,  and  he 
would  die  such,  poor  though  he  was ;  but  for  her  he  felt 
that  he  could  deny  the  Prophet  and  forfeit  heaven,  were 
that  of  any  avail. 

Again  I  say  why  not  ?  That  Nubian  boy's  heart  was 
made  in  the  same  mould  with  Adam's,  the  same  with 
mine  and  yours.  It  beat  to  the  same  time  that  the  first 
heart  learned  in  the  warm  walks  of  Eden,  to  the  same 
pulsations  that  were  once  answered  by  the  throbbing 
breast  of  Eve.  He  loved  as  men  have  always  loved,  poor 
or  rich,  and  like  many  (how  many !)  he  loved  in  vain. 
Alas  the  day ! 

It  was  not  the  old  story — it  was  far  worse.  It  was  a 
half-muttered  tale  of  horrible  outrage,  terrible  wrong.  He 


IQ2  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

knew  little  about  it  himself:  the  end  he  knew.  He  awoke 
from  a  dream  of  madness  and  found  himself  standing 
over  the  dead  body  of  his  superior,  and  the  fair  but  life- 
less form  of  his  Syrian  girl.  Her  soul  had  fled  from  her 
polluted  body,  and  he  had  avenged  her  wrong  with  his 
own  life.  He  was  seized,  bound,  beaten  till  life  was  well- 
nigh  gone,  and  then  escaped  and  crawled  back  a  weary 
way  to  the  sea-coast,  and — he  scarcely  knew  how — found 
himself  in  Egypt.  There  again  he  was  apprehended; 
but  by  chance  an  appeal  to  Ibrahim  Pacha  in  person,  as 
he  rode  through  the  streets,  resulted  in  his  discharge  and 
freedom.  He  had  been  a  sailor  on  the  river  ever  since. 
He  was  not  married — he  did  not  wish  to  be  yet — perhaps 
he  might  some  day — and  at  this  point  in  his  story  the 
boat  brought  up  with  a  short  jerk  on  a  sand-bank.  Has- 
sanein  sprang  to  his  helm,  and  shouted  to  wake  up  Has- 
san Shelalee,  who  was  the  responsible  pilot  above  the  first 
Cataract.  The  men  were  overboard  in  a  few  moments, 
and  the  usual  scene  ensued — a  great  deal  of  shouting,  an 
immense  deal  of  swearing  (for  Mussulmen  swear  like 
troopers,  though  travelers  are  given  to  calling  their  nu- 
merous exclamations  very  devout,  which  consist  of  com- 
pounds of  the  name  of  God),  and  a  little  lifting — at  length 
she  floated,  and  all  were  silent  again,  and  I  gathered  my 
cloak  around  me  and  sank  quietly  to  sleep. 

I  think  that  while  this  memory  flashed  before  me  I  fell 
asleep  on  the  logs.  I  awoke  with  a  start,  listened  to  the 
curious  sounds  of  the  night,  then  threw  myself  down  by 
the  Baron's  side  on  the  boughs  under  the  bark  shelter 
and  slept  with  serenity. 

Day  had  not  fairly  broken  when  I  awoke  and  roused  the 
Baron.  We  desired  to  try  the  early  morning  fishing  ; 
and  after  a  dash  in  the  cold  water  and  a  cup  of  delicious 


A    TELEGRAM.  193 

cafe  noir,  made  in  ten  minutes  on  the  camp-fire,  we 
pushed  off  on  the  rafts  and  began  casting. 

There  was  a  low  fog  on  the  lake,  and  so  long  as  this 
continued  there  was  little  hope  for  a  rise.  I  have  gener- 
ally found  in  our  northern  waters  that  trout  will  not  rise 
in  fog.  Once  in  a  while  the  rule  fails,  but  not  often.  As 
soon,  however,  as  a  light  breeze  came  up  from  the  south 
and  lifted  the  fog,  the  trout  came  out  for  their  breakfasts, 
and  we  began  to  have  fine  sport.  But  we  could  find  very 
few  large  fish.  Only  two  or  three  rose  which  weighed 
over  a  pound.  I  struck  one  much  larger  fish,  but  lost 
him. 

We  cast  for  an  hour,  took  some  thirty  or  forty  fair- 
sized  trout,  then  went  ashore  for  breakfast.  While  we 
were  discussing  a  broiled  chicken  we  heard  a  shout  in 
the  woods  at  the  upper  end  of  the  lake,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments saw  Dupont  emerging  from  the  forest.  He  had 
left  the  hotel  at  sunrise  and  come  over  the  mountain, 
bringing  with  him  a  package  of  letters  and  telegrams,  to 
which  we  made  the  necessary  replies,  sending  them  down 
by  a  messenger.  With  all  respect  to  the  spirit  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  let  an  angler  be  permitted  to  record 
his  detestation  of  the  telegraph.  One  can't  go  now  to  a 
mountain  lake,  in  the  heart  of  the  primeval  forest,  with- 
out being  stirred  up  by  sparks  of  intelligent  electricity. 
There  is  no  longer  any  such  thing  as  kief  in  this  or  any 
part  of  the  world.  Do  you  know  that  word  kief?  Do 
you  know  kief?  Go  to  Araby  the  Blessed  and  learn  it; 
in  the  land  where  they  always  salute  you  with  the  prayer 
"Peace  be  with  you."  Still  the  telegraph  may  serve  an 
angler's  turn  now  and  then.  Some  years  ago,  St.  Anton 
and  C —  -  (old  anglers  of  our  Profile  House  company) 
were  dining  with  me  at  Geneva,  in  Switzerland,  and  after 

N 


194  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

dinner,  about  ten  o'clock,  we  said,  "  Let's  drink  Dupont's 
health;"  and  we  sent  him  a  telegram  to  the  Profile 
House  in  two  words,  "  Your  health,"  and  he  received  it  at 
eight  o'clock  the  same  evening.  So  Alp  spoke  to  White 
Mountain. 

Nevertheless,  as  an  angler  I  wish  the  magnetic  tele- 
graph were  among  the  lost  arts.  Why  should  we  be  an- 
noyed on  the  top  of  a  mountain,  by  the  shore  of  a  beau- 
tiful lake,  with  the  voices  of  the  city  ? 

Dupont  came  into  camp,  and  began  to  criticise  the  un- 
finished breakfast.  He  abused  the  burned  chicken,  as 
he  called  it,  and  ate  a  wing  and  a  leg  and  a  breast — all 
that  was  left  of  it.  He  found  fault  with  the  coffee,  but 
drank  it  by  the  cupful.  The  trout  he  declined,  for  they 
were  cold,  but  he  tasted  three  or  four. 

We  passed  the  day  on  the  lake;  but  we  had  poor  suc- 
cess. It  was  about  the  hottest  day  of  the  hot  summer  of 
1872,  and  although  we  were  some  thousands  of  feet  above 
the  sea-level,  we  felt  the  oppression  of  the  heat,  and  the 
trout  in  the  cool  depths  knew  that  it  was  warm  above, 
and  would  not  come  up. 

We  were  therefore  content  to  fill  an  eighteen-pound 
basket  with  small  fish — only  a  few  reaching  a  pound — 
and  as  the  sun  was  setting  the  Baron  came  in  from  his 
sketching,  and  we  started  for  home. 

The  descent  of  the  mountain  is  easy  if  you  keep  the 
right  track,  but  difficult  and  dangerous  if  you  lose  it. 
We  have  learned  the  route  pretty  well,  yet  are  apt  oc- 
casionally to  miss  it,  and  once  found  ourselves  just  at 
dark  on  the  verge  of  a  precipitous  descent  of  three  or 
four  hundred  feet,  down  which  we  effected  an  almost  mi- 
raculous passage  in  safety. 

Now,  however,  we  came  down  without  adventure,  and 


AN    ARRIVAL.  195 

emerged  from  the  forest  on  the  valley  road  just  as  the 
last  rays  of  twilight  were  vanishing. 

The  horses  knew  that  they  were  going  home.  We 
passed  Profile  Lake  on  a  rattling  trot,  and  when  we  rose 
the  slight  ascent  coming  out  of  the  woods  in  front  of  the 
Profile  House,  the  sight  of  the  hundred  gleaming  win- 
dows cheered  them  as  it  cheered  us,  and  they  broke  into 
a  run  and  dashed  up  to  the  door  in  superb  style.  My 
legs  were  a  little  stiff,  so  that  I  staggered  as  I  descended 
to  the  piazza,  and  might  possibly  have  fallen  but  for  the 
clasp  of  two  strong  arms  which  caught  me,  and  a  low, 
soft  utterance  of  the  musical  salutation  of  the  Orient : 

"The  salutation  of  peace,  Effendi." 

Involuntarily,  before  I  saw  his  face,  I  responded  "  Be 
it  peace,"  and,  lo  !  it  was  John  Steenburger. 

Fresh  from  the  far-off  lands  of  our  affection,  John  had 
arrived  in  New  York  but  two  days  before,  and,  finding 
some  of  our  friends  on  the  wing  for  the  mountains,  joined 
them,  and  was  watching  on  the  piazza  for  my  return. 
How  we  embraced  ! 

"  Well,  we  are  all  here,"  said  John. 

"What?     Who  is  with  you  ?" 

"  All  the  family.  Lucy  and  George  and  the  young 
ones,  Philip  and  the  Doctor;  all  in  your  rooms  at  this 
moment." 

And  there  they  were — the  birch-wood  blazing  high  on 
my  hearth,  the  children  asleep  on  the  diwan,  Mrs.  L — 
and  her  husband  sitting  before  the  fire,  while  Philip  and 
the  Doctor  were  furiously  discussing  some  comic  fishing 
sketches  of  John  Leech,  which  were  the  chief  ornaments 
on  the  walls. 

"  You  never  wrote  that  you  were  coming.  Serves  you 
right  to  find  the  house  full  and  no  rooms  for  you." 


196  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

"I'm  sure  we  have  very  comfortable  quarters  here," 
said  George,  surveying  my  cosy  salon  with  cool  satisfac- 
tion ;  "  nothing  to  complain  of — wish  I  might  always  fall 
as  fair  on  my  feet." 

"  Precisely,  my  boy.  But  you  won't  feel  as  well  when 
you  and  Lucy  and  the  two  youngsters  are  crowded  into 
that  next  room,  as  you  will  be  to-night ;  for  the  rest  of  us 
must  manage  with  these  diwans  and  the  floor.  We'll  do 
something  better  to-morrow,  and  you  have  all  of  you  seen 
worse  quarters.  Have  you  people  dined  ?  Yes,  of  course. 
Half  starved  when  you  arrived.  Supper  they  call  it  here, 
but  I  make  it  dinner.  I  must  go  and  dress  and  get  some- 
thing to  eat.  How  bright  the  lonesome  room  looks ! 
John,  go  down  and  help  me  drink  a  bottle  of  Turken- 
blud." 

It  was  not  strange  that  all  our  talk  that  evening  was  of 
the  East  and  our  old  friends  there,  for  John  Steenburger 
was  a  late  arrival,  and  having  passed  three  or  four  years, 
at  different  dates,  in  Egypt  and  Syria  and  Asia  Minor, 
knew  all  the  people  that  we  knew,  and  could  give  us  late 
intelligence  from  them.  I  had  missed  him  the  last  time  I 
was  in  the  East ;  and  he  had  seen  Cairo  and  crossed  the 
desert  only  a  few  months  before  his  arrival.  We  yielded 
to  the  spell  of  the  Orient.  John  Steenburger  had  brought 
it  with  him,  and  who  could  escape  it  ?  He  was  but  thirty 
days  from  Damascus.  The  very  cigarette  he  rolled  as  he 
talked  was  of  tobacco  from  the  mart  of  Latakia,  where  he 
bought  it,  and  the  paper  was  some  which  he  had  picked 
up  in  a  shop  at  Athens  the  day  he  rested  there  on  his 
way  across  the  isthmus  to  Corfu,  and  so  up  to  Trieste. 

"  No  one  of  us  has  heard  from  you  in  months.  Your 
letters  must  have  gone  astray.  How  came  you  to  cross 
the  desert  again  ?" 


EASTERN    TALK.  197 

"  It  was  a  sudden  notion.  I  was  sitting  in  my  room  at 
Zech's  in  Cairo,  that  little  room  that  opens  on  the  front 
by  the  door,  when  I  overheard  a  conversation  which  in- 
terested me  somewhat.  I  was  lonesome  just  then,  and 
withal  I  did  not  know  where  to  go  next.  It  was  there- 
fore pleasant  to  hear  familiar  voices  talking  of  going 
somewhere.  It  turned  out  that  the  talkers  were  Ameri- 
can travelers.  Some  of  them  knew  people  that  were 
friends  of  ours.  I  joined  them,  and  they  persuaded  me  to 
cross  the  desert.  They  went  to  Sinai.  I  left  Cairo  a  week 
later,  crossed  to  Akabah,  and  waited  for  them  there,  and 
so  we  went  together  to  Petra,  and  thence  by  Hebron  to 
Jerusalem.  Afterward  I  was  possessed  with  the  idea  of 
doing  Asia  Minor,  at  least  so  far  as  seeing  the  cities  of 
the  seven  churches,  and  we  did  that  too." 

"  Poor  John  !" 

"May  I  venture  to  ask  the  meaning  of  that  tone  of 
voice  ?" 

"What  a  lonesome  life  you  have  been  leading,  John. 
When  we  parted  in  Switzerland  I  felt  as  if  I  should  never 
see  you  again.  You  have  such  a  strange  way  of  wander- 
ing off  alone.  You  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world, 
but  never,  since  we  left  you,  have  had  any  one  to  enjoy 
travel  with  you." 

"  Company  I  never  lacked.  There  was  Laroche,  the 
best  Frenchman  I  ever  knew ;  Strong,  whose  good  heart 
I  wrote  you  about  when  I  was  sick  in  Aleppo;  and  Hall, 
the  Englishman  who  did  me  a  good  turn  one  night  in  Da- 
mascus, when  it  might  have  gone  hard  with  me  but  for 
him." 

"  But  you  did  not  love  one  of  them.  I  know  that.  The 
.truth  is,  John,  that  travel,  to  be  thoroughly  enjoyed,  must 
be  with  familiar  and,  more  than  familiar,  affectionate  com- 


198  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

pany.  Travel  in  the  older  countries  warms  and  opens 
the  heart.  Do  you  remember  that  moonlight  at  Bethel, 
when  every  rock  was  like  a  tent,  and  there  were  Jacob's 
ladders  reaching  up  to  the  sky  on  every  side  of  us  ?  Do 
you  not  remember  how  it  made  all  our  hearts  as  soft  as 
the  hearts  of  young  children  ?  It  was  always  so  with  me 
in  the  East.  Strangers  could  not  be  happy  together  in 
such  travel.  You  must  have  longed  every  moment  for 
one  or  two  or  more  companions  to  whom  you  could  talk 
out  all  you  felt.  How  many  times  I  have  seen  you  lie 
down  on  the  ground,  face  up  to  the  evening  sky,  back 
pressed  on  the  turf,  as  if  you  were  growing  fast  to  it,  and 
then  pouring  out  your  rhapsodies.  You  will  never  travel 
so  joyously  and  freely  again,  unless  we  all  go  together." 

"  Alas,  dear  Madam,  that  can  never  be  in  this  world," 
said  John,  and  we  were  all  silent  for  a  little.  Then  he 
added  :  "I  think  you  are  more  than  half  right — I  know 
you  are  altogether  right.  Eastern  travel  is  different,  in 
that  respect,  from  all  other.  The  drafts  made  on  the 
thinking  faculties  are  enormous.  And  not  alone  on  the 
thinking  faculties,  but  especially  on  the  believing  facul- 
ties. Sometimes  I  think  faith  is  as  distinct  a  faculty  as 
memory.  I  am  sure  it  is  as  distinct  as  conscience,  for 
conscience  is  in  reality  but  the  judgment  on  comparison 
with  a  standard,  and  faith  is  much  the  same  mental  act, 
with  the  exception  that  it  seems  sometimes  instinctive,  or 
say  inspired.  All  over  the  Eastern  world  every  step  brings 
some  new  object  for  faith,  and  faith  yields  or  refuses  to 
yield  by  an  involuntary  process.  It  is  quick — swift  as 
lightning  sometimes,  and  it  is  the  special  happiness  of 
travel,  where  the  mind  is  thus  occupied,  to  have  compan- 
ions to  whom  one  may  talk  freely  of  the  objects  and  ef- 
fects of  faith,  seen  and  unseen  as  well.  It  would  be  little 


STEENBURGER'S  STORY.  199 

pleasure  to  me  to  travel  in  the  East  without  company, 
such  as  I  want  in  this  room  when  I  talk  out  my  inmost 
thoughts.  I  have  heard  men  say  that  they  liked  to  be 
alone  among  old  ruins,  that  they  found  invisible  company, 
and  took  delight  in  it.  I  went  out  to  try  it  at  Karnak 
one  night,  alone.  It  was  an  Egyptian  night,  with  a  moon 
almost  full.  The  ruins  were  peopled  with  ghosts  and 
phantoms  by  the  cross-lights  in  the  great  hall  of  columns. 
I  sat  an  hour  in  the  grand  aisle,  then  climbed  to  the  top 
of  the  old  north  wall,  and  looked  over  the  waste  of  splen- 
dor, all  white  and  pure  in  that  light.  But  as  for  enjoying 
it,  it  was  the  most  absolutely  miserable  evening  of  years 
of  travel,  unless  I  except  just  such  a  night  at  Palmyra.  It 
was  full  of  restless,  uncomfortable,  tumultuous  thinking. 
No  one  to  speak  to,  and  a  tempest  of  thinking  all  the 
time,  which  I  suppose  you  might  call  involuntary  think- 
ing, with  no  one  to  think  to." 

"  I  heard  from  Cairo  that  you  had  a  row  of  some  kind 
near  Wady  Mousa.  What  was  it  all  about?  Who  had 
charge  of  your  caravan  ?  Barikhat  or  Houssein  or  Sheik 
Achmed  ?" 

"  Achmed,  of  course.  I  wrote  you  all  about  that  from 
Jerusalem." 

"  Your  letter  never  came." 

"  Strange ;  what  can  have  become  of  all  my  letters  ? 
And  you  don't  know  that  Achmed  is  dead  ?" 

"Achmed?  No.  I  saw  him  in  1870,  and  I  thought 
if  any  man  would  live  a  century  it  was  Achmed  Ben 
Houssein." 

"  Cold  lead  is  bad  for  all  constitutions  alike." 

"  Shot  ?" 

"  Yes,  poor  fellow,  shot.  He  was  the  best  man  I  ever 
found  among  Bedouins.  I  always  thought  much  of  Ach- 


200  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

med.  He  was  above  the  average  of  Arabs  in  intellectual 
ability,  for  he  did  a  good  deal  of  independent  thinking  on 
his  own  account.  You  told  me  the  same  thing  of  him 
once  yourself,  and  I  remember  that  you  said  he  was  the 
only  Bedouin  you  ever  knew  who  had  any  religion  which 
could  be  called  a  part  of  him.  It  was  true.  He  often 
asked  questions  which  were  really  quite  surprising  as  in- 
dications of  the  extent  to  which  his  reflections  had  carried 
him.  I  always  talked  religion  with  him.  During  my  last 
journey  as  well  as  this  we  talked  a  great  deal  about 
Mohammed  and  about  the  Christian  faith.  More  I  think 
this  time  than  before. 

"  In  the  evenings,  when  the  camp  was  pitched,  the  scene 
around  us  was  always  exceedingly  impressive.  At  such 
times  our  Arabs  gathered  in  a  group  close  to  the  tent  in 
which  our  dinner-table  was  set,  and  listened,  wondering, 
to  the  fire  of  talk  which  we  carried  on  in  English  or  in 
French,  until  the  coffee  came  on,  and  our  pipes  were 
alight.  Then,  in  the  fragrant  air,  we  turned  to  our  swarthy 
followers,  who  lay  on  the  sand  outside,  and  one  or  another 
would  recount  a  story  of  the  old  times,  a  crusade  legend, 
or  a  history  of  love  and  war,  which  I  would  repeat  to  the 
sons  of  the  desert.  You  know  how  the  love  of  story-list- 
ening is  one  of  the  remarkable  traits  of  Bedouin  charac- 
ter. But  it  is  no  common  story  that  tickles  their  literary 
palates.  It  must  be  garnished  with  abundance  of  rhetor- 
ical figure,  loaded  with  imagery,  and  sonorous  with  words. 
Therefore  more  depends  on  the  interpreter  than  on  the 
relater  in  such  a  case. 

"The  Bible  furnished  material  for  many  of  these  tales  ; 
and  the  stories  of  the  patriarchs  given  in  the  Jewish  ver- 
sion of  them  differ  so  entirely  from  the  Mohammedan  ver- 
sion, that  they  had  to  the  listeners  the  freshness  of  new 


THE    BEDOUIN.  2OI 

relations.  Sheik  Achmed  would  lie  on  the  sand  for  hours 
listening  to  Hall's  relation  of  the  events  in  the  life 
of  Joseph;  and  I  could  see  his  keen  eye  light  with  the 
story  at  its  salient  points,  and  show  his  full  appreciation 
of  it. 

" '  I'll  try  Achmed  this  evening  on  a  story  out  of  the  New 
Testament/  said  Hall  one  day  as  he  rode  by  my  side ; 
and  in  the  evening,  when  the  stars  were  looking  down  on 
us  in  a  deep  gorge  between  two  lofty  rocks,  Stephen  told 
the  story  of  the  Fall  of  Man  and  the  Passion  of  the  Son 
of  God.  I  translated  it,  watching  Achmed's  eyes. 

"  It  was  a  weird  scene,  that  group  of  Bedouin  listeners, 
with  flashing  eyes  hearing  the  history  of  the  king  of  a  far 
country,  who  ransomed  his  subjects  at  such  cost.  They 
understood  the  story  well.  Every  point  told  on  their  keen 
intellects,  and  they  exchanged  glances  of  intelligence  at 
every  new  passage. 

"  The  next  morning,  as  we  were  riding  slowly  up  a  val- 
ley toward  the  northeast,  Achmed  closed  up  by  my  side, 
and  began  a  conversation. 

"'The  story  that  Howadji  Stephano  told  last  night—' 

"  '  Yes,  Sheik  Achmed.' 

"  '  You  think  it  a  true  story  as  well  as  the  Howadji  Ste- 
phano.' 

"  '  I  ?     How  know  you  that  I  think  it  true  ?' 

" '  By  your  eye  and  voice.  Besides,  I  have  heard  it  be- 
fore.' 

"  '  Where,  and  when  ?' 

: '  You  told  me  part  of  it  once,  that  night  we  were  out- 
side the  Deir  San  Saba ;  and  then  I  heard  it  again  from 
Father  Paul,  at  the  convent  at  Jebel  Mousa.  He  told  it 
to  me  one  evening  when  he  was  shut  out,  for  he  had  been 
to  see  a  sick  man  in  the  tents  of  the  Oulad-Said.  He 


202  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

found  the  convent  closed,  and  he  slept  that  night  in  my 
tent.  He  was  a  good  man,  and  he  believed  the  story.  I 
wish  I  knew  more  about  Isa,  the  son  of  Mary.' 

"  Our  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  sudden  ap- 
pearance, on  a  hill  commanding  our  route,  of  a  party  of 
Bedouins,  whom  Achmed  recognized  on  the  instant  as 
some  of  those  scoundrels  that  inhabit  the  southern  parts 
of  Moab,  but  who  fled  as  we  advanced.  One  of  their 
number,  however,  stood  for  a  long  time  defiantly  on  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  and  the  sheik,  lifting  his  mare  to  her  full 
speed,  crossed  the  valley,  and  commenced  the  ascent  of 
the  rocky  hill  on  which  his  foe  stood.  The  latter  coolly 
swung  his  gun  from  his  shoulder,  and  covered  his  ap- 
proaching enemy.  In  vain  we  shouted  to  Achmed.  In 
vain  we  sent  a  volley  of  balls  from  our  revolvers,  which 
carried  not  half  way  to  the  hill.  A  puff  of  smoke  against 
the  blue  sky,  a  rattling  echo  down  the  ravine,  and  Achmed 
reeled  in  his  saddle. 

"  It  was  all  over  in  an  instant.  The  enemy  vanished  as 
if  in  the  smoke  of  his  gun,  and  our  leader  lay  on  the  rocky 
hill-side,  his  faithful  mare  standing  over  him.  We  were  at 
his  side  in  a  few  moments.  He  was  badly  wounded,  but 
already  endeavoring  to  stanch  the  fast-flowing  blood. 
Lifting  him  carefully  from  his  bad  position  among  the 
rocks,  we  carried  him  down  to  the  sandy  plain,  and  laid 
him  on  his  own  soil,  the  earth  to  which,  I  had  no  doubt 
from  the  first,  he  must  now  return. 

"  There  was  no  good  material  with  which  to  form  it,  but 
Achmed  insisted  that  a  rude  camel's  litter  should  be 
made,  and  with  the  aid  of  some  of  the  baggage  a  sort  of 
half  hammock  half  Taktarawan  was  constructed,  in  which 
for  four  hours  of  the  day  he  swung  in  great  pain,  and  yet, 
with  the  firmness  of  a  Roman,  determined  that  he  would 


WADY    MOUSA.  203 

bear  all  to  reach  Wady  Mousa  and  the  Rock  City  before 
he  should  die. 

"  When  the  evening  came  on  we  were  still  six  hours  from 
the  valley  of  Petra.  But  it  was  agreed  on  all  hands  that 
the  sheik's  wishes  should  be  strictly  observed  even  at  any 
sacrifice,  and  we  rested  only  half  an  hour  to  eat  and  let 
the  camels  rest,  then  pushed  on  in  the  twilight.  The 
moon  rose  and  shone  on  our  strange  procession,  and  by 
her  light  we  reached  at  length  the  narrow  entrance  of  the 
valley.  We  had  sent  messengers  in  advance,  and  our 
coming  was  expected.  A  swarthy  group  were  waiting  for 
us  at  the  door  of  a  chamber  in  the  rock,  which  had  once 
been,  perhaps,  the  hall  of  a  palace,  or  mayhap  the  tomb 
of  a  prince;  for  it  is  difficult  to  say  what  was  tomb  or 
what  was  habitation  of  the  living  in  this  city  of  the  ancient 
mighty.  Houssein,  the  father  of  the  wounded  sheik,  with 
the  old  men  of  his  tribe,  were  gathered  here  to  await  our 
arrival,  and  received  us  in  silence  but  with  perfect  cordi- 
ality, and  gave  us  the  words  of  welcome  so  seldom  pro- 
nounced to  strangers  in  Wady  Mousa. 

"  Lifting  the  wounded  man  into  the  place  prepared  for 
him,  and  making  him  as  comfortable  as  the  circumstances 
of  the  case  would  permit,  we  sat  down  around  him,  rest- 
ing on  our  baggage  here  and  there,  to  await  the  change 
which  we  knew  was  fast  coming  over  the  Bedouin. 

"  Have  I  said  that  Hall,  the  Englishman,  was  a  surgeon 
in  the  navy  ?  He  had  pronounced  the  sheik's  wound  in- 
curable from  the  beginning,  and  now  said  that  he  had  but 
a  few  hours  to  live. 

"  As  the  gray  dawn  began  to  course  up  the  eastern  sky 
he  was  manifestly  dying.  His  dark  countenance,  thin 
and  hollow-faced  at  the  best,  was  now  almost  spiritual  in 
appearance.  You  who  remember  him  will  not  think  it 


204  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

strange  that  I  apply  to  a  Bedouin  this  phrase,  which  is 
more  frequently  applicable  to  the  dying  features  of  Chris- 
tian girls  in  Western  homes. 

"  His  countenance  was  noble  always.  There  is  a  head 
of  Christ,  by  Titian,  in  the  Pitti  Gallery  at  Florence,  which 
mayhap  you  have  seen.  The  features  are  delicately  out- 
lined ;  the  coloring  not  Titianesque  at  all,  but  rather  un- 
certain and  undecided.  The  face  of  Achmed  reminded 
me  of  that  picture  when  I  met  him  first,  and  on  this  morn- 
ing it  was  unearthly  in  its  serene  splendor. 

"One  might  have  thought  him  his  father  Ishmael,  dying 
on  the  desert  that  was  his  sole  inheritance.  No  trap- 
pings of  royalty  were  around  him,  such  as  surround  the 
couches  of  princes  of  more  wealthy  lands.  The  lands  of 
this  Duke  of  Edom  were  the  barren  desert,  stretching 
away  in  its  wastes  of  rock  and  sand.  His  palace  was 
the  ruined  palace  of  a  Roman  governor,  down  through 
the  shattered  front  of  which  the  blue  sky  reflected  the 
light  of  the  coming  day  before  the  sun  came  up  to  shine 
in  Wady  Mousa.  The  poor  burnoose  —  the  rough  cam- 
el's-hair  cloak  that  inswathed  his  form — was  the  substi- 
tute for  the  purple  of  a  kingly  death-bed ;  but  more  ma- 
jestic countenance  never  shone  on  living  men  than  was 
his  as  the  dawn  lit  its  thin  features,  and  his  father  bent 
over  him  to  say  that  he  was  dying. 

"  I  know  not  what  thoughts  had  possession  of  his  mind, 
or  whether  his  countenance  were  indeed  a  fair  indication 
of  his  soul ;  for  his  words  were  simple  enough,  but  sub- 
lime enough  withal  to  express  a  consciousness  of  his  no- 
ble origin,  and  the  splendor  of  his  exit  from  the  land  of 
his  fathers  on  a  sunny  morning  in  the  valley  of  Petra. 

" '  The  Hakim  saith  you  are  not  to  live  longer,  my  son 
Achmed.' 


ACHMED   BEN    HOUSSEIN.  205 

" '  It  is  well.  The  will  of  God  and  his  prophets  be 
obeyed.' 

" '  What  shall  I  do  for  you  before  you  depart  ?  for  it  is 
written,  "  Let  him  order  his  affairs  before  he  die,  lest  his 
children  have  trouble  in  their  tents."  ' 

" '  I  have  no  children  to  be  troubled,  and  nothing  to 
cause  them  trouble  if  I  had.  I  give  Houssein  my  spear, 
and  Khalifa  my  gun.  The  mare  is  yours,  O  my  father ! 
She  will  bear  you  well  until  you  and  I  are  together  again. 
Howadji,  you  are  going  to  El-Khuds.  I  would  have  gone 
with  you  to  the  Holy  City  myself,  but  since  I  can  not, 
here  is  my  shawl;  there  is  in  the  folds  of  it  a  sum  of 
money,  and  the  shawl  itself  is  worth  ten  thousand  pias- 
tres. Take  the  money  to  the  priests  that  guard  the  tomb 
of  Isa  Ben  Mariam,  and  give  the  shawl  to  Mohammed 
Dhunnouf,  sheik  of  the  Mesjid  el-Aksa.  Do  this  for  me, 
oh  Howadji  Yeyeh,  and  add  to  the  money  you  give  the 
priests  so  much  as  you  owe  me  for  this  journey,  making 
it  as  large  an  amount  as  your  love  for  me  will  warrant. 
I  trust  you  fully,  for  you  have  been  kind.' 

"  '  Why  divide  the  money  and  the  cashmere,  Sheik  Ach- 
med  ?  Were  it  not  better  to  give  both  to  the  sheik  of 
the  Dome  of  the  Rock  ?' 

"  '  Not  so.  We  Bedouins  have  little  knowledge  of  re- 
ligion, though  we  call  our  faith  the  faith  of  Islam.  But  I 
know  not  whether,  after  all,  there  may  not  be  some  error 
in  all  this,  and  some  truth  in  your  faith  in  Isa,  the  son  of 
Mary.  My  possessions  are  small.  I  am  of  the  Beni-Is- 
mahil ;  but  our  father  had  no  lands  other  than  the  desert, 
and  we  had  nothing  from  his  father  Ibrahim.  That  which 
I  have  is  the  gift  of  God.  I  would  give  it  back  to  him 
directly.  I  know  no  better  way  than  this.  Deny  me 
not,  O  Effendi !' 


206  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

" '  Nay,  nay,  Sheik  Achmed ;  I  will  do  as  you  wish.' 

"  '  It  is  well.     I  am  content.' 

"  The  conversation  had  wearied  him.  The  eyes  which 
had  been  fixed  with  imploring  gaze  on  mine  closed  for 
a  few  moments.  The  older  sheik  was  silent,  and  now 
several  of  the  tribe  came  to  the  door,  and  looking  in, 
asked  if  he  were  yet  at  peace.  All  their  questions  were 
put  in  the  poetic  language  of  the  desert.  It  was  remark- 
able that  no  man  asked  in  simple  words, '  Is  he  better  ?' 
or  '  Is  he  worse  ?'  but  every  one  inquired  in  metaphoric 
phrases,  the  most  frequent  of  which  was  that  touching  in- 
quiry, '  Is  it  peace  ?' 

"  No  shudder  or  convulsion  marked  the  instant  when 
Achmed  Ben  Houssein  passed  into  the  presence  of  Ish- 
mael  his  ancestor.  The  sun  came  up  over  the  eastern 
hill,  and  the  soft  light  fell  on  the  front  of  the  ruin  in  which 
he  lay,  and  a  single  beam  of  light  coming  through  the 
door-way  at  the  side  of  the  curtain  touched  his  counte- 
nance. That  mild  touch  awoke  him. 

"  He  had  known  the  sunshine  on  his  countenance  bet- 
ter than  we  know  it  in  cold  western  countries.  He  and 
the  sunshine  were  old  friends,  and  the  morning  light  on 
his  forehead  was  like  the  familiar  caress  of  a  mother. 

"  He  raised  his  heavy  eyelids  and  met  the  gaze  of  the 
old  man  who  stood  over  him,  looking  intently  on  his  face, 
and  a  smile,  I  verily  believe  the  first  smile  that  had  cross- 
ed his  countenance  in  years,  took  complete  possession  of 
it  as  he  murmured,  'La  Illah  il  Allah'  (There  is  no  de- 
ity but  God);  and  then  he  hesitated,  and  the  smile  be- 
came almost  a  laugh  of  delight  as  he  added,  '  Isa  Ben 
Mariam  rasoul  Allah  !'  (Jesus  the  son  of  Mary  is  the 
messenger  of  God !) 

"  Sheik  Houssein  did  not  indicate,  by  look  or  sign,  that 


DEATH    OF    ACHMED.  207 

he  approved  or  disapproved  the  creed  in  which  his  son 
was  dying,  thus  announced  in  his  last  breath.  Achmed 
gazed  into  his  father's  eyes  longingly  and  steadfastly,  as 
if  seeking  some  approval  or  dissent;  but  finding  neither, 
the  smile  on  his  countenance  changed  to  a  look  of  anxi- 
ety, even  of  pain,  and  then  he  stretched  his  tall  form  on 
the  floor,  and  without  sigh  or  moan  or  utterance  of  any 
kind  the  son  of  the  desert  was  dust  like  the  old  dust 
around  him. 

"  In  the  afternoon  the  Alaween  dug  a  grave  for  their 
dead  brother  in  the  burial-place  of  his  people,  and,  wrap- 
ping around  him  the  clothes  in  which  he  died,  they  car- 
ried him  out  to  burial.  The  procession  was  not  large. 
The  women  rent 'the  air  with  their  occasional  shrill  cries, 
but  this  was  only  formality.  He  had  left  no  wife  or  chil- 
dren, and  his  father  was  too  old  to  mourn  for  such  events. 
Seven  tall  sons  had  he  buried  like  this  one,  and  the 
eighth  grave  was  filled  up  in  the  afternoon  sunlight." 

The  night  was  far  advanced  before  we  were  tired  of 
talking.  By  midnight  the  hotel  had  sunk  into  a  profound 
silence,  though  more  than  seven  hundred  persons  were 
sleeping  in  it  and  the  surrounding  buildings.  We  should 
have  talked  the  night  through  if  the  Doctor  had  not  in- 
terrupted us  with  a  stentorian  snore.  So  we  made  our 
camp  on  the  floor  and  the  diwans,  and  the  morning  sun, 
coming  over  Eagle  Cliff,  caught  us  there. 


XL 

ON  A  MOUNTAIN  BROOK. 

THE  Pemigewasset  flows  out  from  Profile  Lake,  a  swift 
brook,  receiving  at  almost  every  fifty  rods  the  water  of  a 
greater  or  less  cold  spring,  and  by  the  time  it  crosses  the 
Plymouth  Road,  five  miles  down  the  valley,  is  a  strong 
stream.  In  traveling  this  distance  it  descends  several 
hundred  feet,  and  the  entire  course  is  in  dense  forest,  ex- 
cept a  few  rods  of  open  country  at  the  Lafayette  clearing. 
Its  water  is  of  that  pure  transparency  which  characterizes 
a  few  of  our  American  mountain  brooks.  You  can  see 
the  bottom  at  ten  feet  depth  about  as  clearly  as  if  look- 
ing through  air. 

After  crossing  the  road  it  lapses  along  over  a  pebbly 
bottom  for  a  fourth  of  a  mile,  and  then  plunges  into  a 
deep  rocky  ravine,  cascade  after  cascade,  falling  some 
three  or  four  hundred  feet  in  less  than  two  hundred  rods, 
until  it  reaches  "the  Pool."  Deep  holes  abound  among 
the  rocks  all  along  the  course.  But  it  is  of  no  use  to  try 
fly-fishing  on  this  river,  for,  in  the  first  place,  there  is  no 
chance  for  a  cast,  and,  in  the  second  place,  the  trout  will 
not  rise  to  a  fly  at  any  season  of  the  year.  Perhaps  this 
is  due  to  the  marvelous  clearness  of  the  water,  but  I  will 
not  undertake  to  assign  a  reason. 

Many  visitors  at  the  Profile  House  have  fished  the  river 
down  to  the  bridge.  Few  have  attempted  to  go  through 


THE    PEMIGEWASSET.  209 

the  wild  gorge  below.  Dupont  and  myself  have  often 
done  it,  but  never  with  so  great  difficulty  as  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1872,  when,  in  consequence  of  the  continuous  rain, 
the  river  was  very  high  and  strong. 

"  Will  you  fish  a  brook  to-morrow  ?"  I  said  to  Dupont 
as  we  were  parting  at  midnight. 

"  What  brook  do  you  want  to  fish  ?" 

"  The  Pemigewasset,  below  the  bridge." 

"  Can  we  get  through  with  the  water  as  high  as  now  ?" 

"  We  can  try." 

And  so  we  met  at  an  early  breakfast,  and  were  off  down 
the  valley  with  Jack  and  the  buck-board  before  the  sun 
was  up.  The  sound  of  the  water  in  the  Basin  was  thun- 
derous. I  confess  that  I  began  to  think  of  backing  out, 
but  I  said  nothing.  At  the  Basin  we  put  on  our  wading 
trousers  and  went  in. 

It  was  a  clear,  cool  day,  with  a  soft  breeze  shaking  the 
birch-leaves  and  cooling  our  heads,  which  would  other- 
wise have  been  very  hot  while  our  feet  were  in  the  cold 
water.  For  the  temperature  of  the  Pemigewasset  is  sel- 
dom above  forty-five. 

For  me  there  is  always  more  pleasure  to  be  derived 
from  fishing  a  brook  than  from  any  other  angling.  Flow- 
ing water  is  always  attractive,  and  every  rod  of  this  river 
is  exquisitely  beautiful. 

The  piscatorial  dilettante  is  fond  of  condemning  bait- 
fishing  as  a  low  business.  I  differ  from  him.  It  is  a  fine 
art,  and  in  all  the  classics  of  our  art-history  has  taken 
high  rank.  If  the  test  be  found  in  the  amount  of  skill  re- 
quired for  its  practice,  then  without  dispute  it  ranks  as 
high  as  fly-fishing.  I  grant  freely  that  sitting  in  a  boat 
or  on  a  lake-shore  and  fishing  for  trout  with  a  deep  line 
and  a  float  is  not  one  of  the  fine  arts.  Any  one  can  do 
O 


210  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

it.  But  I  know  very  few  men  who  can  fish  a  brook  with 
bait  as  it  should  be  done.  I  could  do  it  better  myself 
forty  years  ago  than  now,  for  the  boy  along  the  brook 
learns  a  thousand  lessons  that  he  forgets  as  he  grows 
older. 

There  is  little  choice  of  bait,  but  there  is  something 
in  even  that.  Never  give  up  a  deep  hole  in  which  you 
have  reason  to  think  there  are  good  trout  until  you  have 
exhausted  your  resources.  The  angle-worm  is  your  main 
reliance,  but  if  that  does  not  take,  try  the  tail  of  a  small 
trout,  or  a  bright-colored  fin,  or,  if  you  can  find  it,  a  red- 
fin's  tail  or  fin.  These  last  we  do  not  find  in  the  Pemige- 
wasset,  where  trout  and  only  trout  inhabit.  Sometimes 
nothing  is  so  taking  as  a  grasshopper,  at  another  time  the 
eye  of  a  trout,  and  often  the  red  gill  will  attract  large  fish. 

But  the  best  of  bait  will  be  of  no  avail  if  you  do  not  fish 
with  care  and  skill.  Trout  will  seldom  take  bait  when 
they  see  you,  or  if  they  do,  it  will  be  with  a  sudden  dash 
out  from  under  a  bank  or  log  or  rock,  and  as  sudden  a 
rush  back.  Then  the  chances  are  in  favor  of  your  losing 
trout  and  hook,  for  the  fish  have  a  marvelous  aptitude  for 
winding  a  line  around  twigs  and  roots  and  stakes. 

In  most  brooks  the  fish  are  found  in  deep  holes,  at  the 
foot  of  a  fall  or  a  rapid,  under  a  bank,  or  under  over- 
hanging rocks.  But  in  others  they  will  be  lying  in  the 
lower  end  of  each  deep  pool  where  it  shoals  up  to  the  out- 
flow. In  swift  rapids  they  lie  in  small  eddies,  watching 
for  what  comes  down  stream.  Their  eye-sight  is  marvel- 
ously  keen.  And  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  however 
rough  the  surface  of  clear  water  may  be,  the  water  itself 
below  the  surface  is  a  solid  medium  like  glass,  so  that  a 
fish  under  water  sees  in  all  directions  as  we  do  in  the  air 
when  the  wind  blows.  I  have  seen  a  trout  start  from  a 


THE   BASIN.  211 

point  forty  feet  distant  for  a  bait  thrown  into  the  Pemige- 
wasset  and  take  it,  and  I  was  so  much  surprised  that  I 
measured  the  distance. 

With  either  fly  or  bait  I  prefer  to  fish  a  stream  down- 
ward. This  is  contrary  to  many  authorities,  but  is  the 
result  of  my  own  experience.  I  make  no  account  of  the 
fact  that  fish  lie  with  their  heads  up  stream.  They  have 
no  eyes  in  their  tails,  but  they  see  backward  with  sharp 
vision.  The  dash  and  foam  of  the  waterfall  hides  the 
angler  effectually  from  the  fish  as  he  comes  down  stream 
to  a  pool,  and  rougher  water  is  usually  found  in  the  upper 
part  of  every  good  trout -hole.  Fish  lying  under  the 
rough  surface  see  out  plainly  enough  down  stream, 
through  the  glassy  water  and  the  smooth  surface  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  pool.  Where  the  fall  is  strong  and  the 
foam  abundant,  you  may  come  down  to  the  very  edge  of 
the  pool  from  above,  and  take  trout  from  within  three  feet 
of  your  stand. 

It  seems,  too,  that  trout  are  less  likely  to  be  frightened 
by  an  angler  wading  the  brook  than  by  one  on  the  bank. 
Why  this  is  I  leave  for  others  to  explain,  but  I  have  known 
many  a  trout  to  rise  between  my  very  feet  at  a  fly  trailing 
from  my  hand  while  I  stood  in  the  middle  of  a  rapid. 

All  visitors  at  the  Profile  House  know  the  Basin,  a 
great  hollow  in  the  granite  rock,  around  which  for  some 
thousands  of  years  the  river  has  swept  boulders  until  they 
have  worn  this  mighty  bowl,  now  holding  some  fifteen 
feet  of  transparent  water,  into  which  the  river  descends  in 
a  cataract,  and  from  which  it  rushes  out  through  a  cleft  in 
the  granite  and  plunges  into  a  pool  below.  I  never  took 
a  trout  in  the  Basin.  It  is  a  singular  illustration  of  a 
habit  of  trout,  which  I  think  is  well  confirmed,  namely, 
that  they  will  not  lie  in  a  hole,  however  inviting,  between 


212  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

two  cascades.  Trout  do  not  ascend  perpendicular  falls 
of  any  great  height,  nor  do  they  descend  them  of  their 
own  free  will.  They  are  timid  fish,  and  desire  a  clear  run 
in  case  of  danger,  and  it  is  probably  this  prevision  and 
provision  for  flight  which  leads  them  to  be  shy  of  all 
pools  which  lie  between  cascades. 

We  fished  the  river  a  few  rods  down  from  the  Basin, 
then  crossed  the  woods  fifty  or  a  hundred  rods  to  the 
Cascade  brook,  which  runs  into  the  Pemigewasset  a  half- 
mile  below.  This  is  one  of  the  finest  brooks  in  America 
for  scenery,  as  well  as  for  small  trout.  It  comes  down  a 
thousand  feet  in  the  course  of  a  mile  or  two,  and  its  last 
descent  is  over  a  smooth  broad  face  of  granite,  a  hundred 
feet  wide,  and  sloping  steeply  two  or  three  hundred  feet. 
Along  this  slide  the  brook  sometimes  wanders  hither  and 
thither,  from  side  to  side,  as  if  hesitating  to  hurry  down  ; 
but  in  high  water  it  is  a  broad  and  mighty  torrent,  white 
as  snow,  roaring  and  dashing  itself  in  great  masses  of 
foam  high  in  the  air,  and  covering  all  the  slope  from  for- 
est to  forest. 

We  found  the  stream  lower  in  comparison  than  the 
Pemigewasset,  and  commencing  at  the  foot  of  the  slope 
we  fished  it  down  to  the  junction.  The  supply  of  trout  in 
all  these  streams  is  something  wonderful.  It  never  mat- 
ters whether  we  fish  side  by  side  or  follow  one  another. 
After  one  has  apparently  exhausted  a  pool,  the  other  com- 
ing a  little  after  will  find  it  well  stocked  with  fish,  who 
had  taken  refuge  under  rocks  while  the  first  was  there,  or 
who  have  rushed  up  to  it  as  he  passed  down  stream. 

We  had  a  short  dispute  as  to  the  proprietorship  of  a 
small  trout.  We  threw  into  a  pool  together,  standing  on 
opposite  sides  of  it,  and  as  we  lifted  out  each  his  trout 
there  was  but  one  between  us,  swinging  in  mid-air  over 


WINE    FOR    LUNCHEON.  213 

the  pool  on  both  rods.  The  quick  fellow  had  taken  both 
hooks  before  his  companions  could  get  hold  of  either. 
He  had  companions,  for  we  took  a  half-dozen  out  of  the 
same  pool. 

Our  favorite  luncheon-place  is  on  a  large  rock  at  the 
junction  of  the  Cascade  brook  with  the  Pemigewasset. 
Here  is  a  deep  pool  under  the  rock,  a  dense  overhanging 
shade,  and  across  the  Pemigewasset  close  by  the  edge  of 
the  river  runs  the  road,  yet  shut  from  view  of  it  by  thick 
brush.  Many  a  day  we  have  sat  on  that  rock  and  seen 
the  wagons  go  by  with  loads  of  visitors  from  the  hotel  to 
the  Flume,  and  have  recognized  through  the  openings  in 
the  trees  familiar  faces  from  the  city,  faces  of  friends  who 
would  hardly  have  recognized  us  had  they  seen  us  in  fish- 
ing costume. 

We  reached  the  rock  at  two  o'clock  or  thereabouts,  and 
after  taking  ten  or  a  dozen  trout  from  the  pool,  sat  down  in 
the  shade,  or  rather  stretched  ourselves  on  the  rock.  A 
bottle  of  the  red  blood  of  the  Beaune  grapes  was  lying  in 
the  sunshine  while  we  had  been  fishing  the  pool,  and 
when  we  had  rested  a  half-hour  or  so  was  in  perfect  con- 
dition. This,  with  a  sandwich,  made  our  luncheon.  I 
have  yet  to  meet  with  the  angler  of  experience  who  uses 
strong  drinks  while  fishing.  It  is  especially  bad  for  one 
who  is  wading  a  cold  brook  to  carry  and  use  whisky  or 
brandy.  The  tendency  of  blood  to  the  head,  caused  by 
cold  at  the  lower  extremities,  is  enough  without  the  help 
of  alcohol  in  condensed  form.  Dupont  and  myself  have 
fished  together  more  or  less  for  many  years,  and  after 
some  experience  we  have  agreed  on  a  light  Burgundy  as 
the  best  wine  for  luncheon  in  the  woods.  So  the  bottle 
occupies  a  place  in  one  of  the  baskets,  and  its  room  is 
wanted  at  just  about  the  time  we  want  the  wine. 


214  *    GO    A-FISHING. 

"  Effendi,"  said  Dupont,  as  he  laid  down  the  last  frag- 
ment of  a  sandwich  which  he  could  not  master,  and  then 
stretched  himself  on  the  rock  and  lighted  a  cigar,  "  did 
you  ever  make  any  estimate  of  the  amount  of  time  that 
you  have  passed  in  this  business  of '  going  a-fishing  ?'  " 

"  What,  all  told  ?" 

"Yes,  all  told  and  added  up." 

"No,  never;  but  I  fancy  it  would  add  up  some  years." 

"  So  much  ?" 

"Yes,  we  are  often  astonished  when  we  count  up  time 
which  we  have  spent  without  keeping  the  record.  It  slips 
away  more  easily  than  money,  and  the  sum  total  of  ex- 
penditure will  sometimes  startle,  and  may  well  alarm  us 
unless  we  have  something  to  show  for  it.  You  sleep 
somewhat  more  than  six  hours  a  day,  but  suppose  it  to 
be  only  six  ;  that  is,  one  fourth  of  twenty-four  hours.  If 
you  live  to  be  eighty  years  old,  you  will  have  passed 
twenty  years  of  your  life  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness. 
Your  breakfast,  luncheon,  dinner,  and  coffee  occupy  you, 
or  should  occupy  you  at  least  two  hours  each  day,  so  that 
at  eighty  you  will  have  spent  more  than  six  years  in  feed- 
ing. I  know  gentlemen  who  ride  daily  to  and  from  their 
places  of  business  in  railway  cars,  passing  two  or  three 
hours  of  the  day  in  this  transit,  who  would  be  surprised 
if  it  were  brought  to  their  notice  that  they  pass  one  month 
or  more  each  year,  or  one  whole  year  in  every  twelve,  in- 
side of  a  railway  carriage." 

"  And  men  waste  life  in  this  fearful  way  ?" 

"  It  is  the  order  of  nature,  and  the  result  of  our  modern 
systems  of  life  and  labor.  The  sleep  is  no  waste  of  time. 
The  Creator  intended  it  to  be  so ;  but  it  is  well  for  men, 
in  looking  at  life,  to  think  that  short  as  it  is  the  working 
hours  are  vastly  shorter,  and  that  one  fourth  is  always  to 


SLEEP.  215 

be  deducted  from  any  apparent  view  of  a  period  devoted 
to  life  or  labor  or  love.  Sometimes  that  brevity  of  time 
for  love  is  an  overwhelming  thought.  We  look  forward 
to  a  dear  companionship  of  years.  We  give  to  that  com- 
panionship how  much  ?  I  know  many  a  man  who  loves 
his  family  with  devoted  affection,  but  who  gives  ten  hours 
each  day  to  business,  and  six  to  sleep,  and  thus  can  count 
in  every  twenty  years  only  seven  which  he  has  passed  in 
their  society.  I  do  not  find  fault  with  him  to  whom  labor 
is  a  necessity,  but  it  is  beyond  question  a  wrong  to  him- 
self and  others  in  the  case  of  one  who  has  no  actual  need 
to  keep  on  working  •  and  surely  it  is  a  grand  error  in  the 
modern  social  structure  that  the  styles  of  life,  the  require- 
ments of  social  position,  the  luxuries  that  have  become 
necessities  of  our  artificial  life,  compel  this  vast  sacrifice 
of  the  affections.  It  is  more  than  a  sacrifice  of  affection, 
for  it  has  its  effect  on  the  character,  and  so  on  the  nations 
and  the  age.  But  what's  the  use  of  talking  about  it.  We 
can't  reform  it.  Only,  my  boy,  it's  pleasant,  lying  on  this 
rock  and  watching  the  water,  to  think  that  when  the  rough 
and  tumble  is  over — when  we  have  had  our  play  in  the 
forests,  and  have  done  our  work  in  the  factories — when 
we  have  gotten  through  the  alternations  of  sunshine  and 
shade,  light  and  darkness,  labor  and  rest,  there  will  be  an 
end  of  it,  where  there  will  be  no  more  sleeping." 

"  What !  no  sleep  in  heaven  ?  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that. 
Sleep  is  one  of  the  blessings.  You  know, '  He  giveth  his 
beloved  sleep.' " 

"  A  beautiful  passage,  and  one  that  it  seems  very  hard 
to  erase  from  our  Bibles  :  but,  you  know,  it  does  not  be- 
long there.  The  correct  translation  of  the  Hebrew  is, 
'  He  giveth  to  his  beloved  asleep.'  God's  gifts  are  often 
unsought,  unforeseen,  and  come  without  our  seeking  or 


2l6  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

working  for  them.  '  Except  the  Lord  build  the  house, 
they  labor  in  vain  that  build  it.  Except  the  Lord  keep 
the  city,  the  watchman  waketh  but  in  vain.  It  is  vain 
for  you  to  rise  up  early,  to  sit  up  late,  to  eat  the  bread  of 
sorrows.  He  giveth  to  his  beloved  while  they  sleep.' 
No,  sir,  there  is  no  night  and  no  sleep  there,  and  no 
need  of  sleep,  for  the  eternal  joys  are  not  to  be  weari- 
some." 

"  But  you  don't  believe  that  we  are  to  lead  a  life  of 
eternal  repose  there.  I  can't  say  that  I  have  any  fancy 
for  the  heaven  that  some  people  look  to,  of  everlasting 
quiet  and  calm  and  rest.  Is  labor  then  necessarily  pain 
that  men  think  it  a  blessing  to  get  rid  of  it  ?" 

"  For  them  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden,  there  is  rest 
there  ;  but  I  agree  with  you  in  believing  that  the  rest  is 
only  refreshment  for  eternal  work  and  the  enjoyment  of 
it.  The  keenest  sense  of  happiness  which  man  has  here, 
is  found  in  doing  something  for  the  objects  of  his  affec- 
tion. The  most  perfect  contentment  is  to  be  found  in 
being  useful.  I  often  wonder  what  ideas  Augustine  had. 
He  used  a  word  once  which  made  me  fancy  that  with  all 
his  eloquent  thought  about  heaven,  of  which  his  works  are 
so  full,  he  never  quite  appreciated  it." 

"  The  word  ?" 

"  He  said  '  Ibi  vacabimus' — I  don't  like  that  word  vaca- 
bimus — '  Ibi  vacabimus  et  videbimus,  videbimus  et  amabi- 
mus,  amabimus  et  laudabimus.  Ecce  quod  erit  in  fine  sine 
fine.'  I  remember  the  passage  because  I  often  say  it  over 
to  myself,  and  it  closes  his  greatest  work,  '  De  Civitate 
Dei.'  But  I  don't  believe  the  life  hereafter  will  be  any 
such  as  is  properly  expressed  by  that  word  vacabimus. 
Old  friend,  I  was  taught  from  childhood  to  believe  in  a 
local  heaven.  We  shall  be  there  with  these  eyes  of  ours. 


SMALL    TROUT.  2iy 

I  never  see  this  glorious  river  rushing  by  us,  pure  and 
clear  and  strong,  but  I  think — I  think — how  many  hours  I 
have  sat  here  thinking  'Are  there  no  rocks  in  the  streams 
that  flow  in  the  celestial  fields  ?  Is  the  river  that  runs 
clear  as  crystal  always  a  calm  smooth  stream,  or  does  it 
not  sometimes  leap  and  flash  in  the  holy  light  and  add 
its  voice  to  the  grand  harmonies?'  No,  no,  it  can't  be 
there  a  long  calm,  a  never-ending  uniformity  of  existence. 
Oh  for  a  breath  of  the  winds  that  toss  the  hair  and  fan 
the  cheeks  of  the  white-robed !  Oh  for  a  drop  of  the 
spray  from  the  crystal  stream !  Oh  for  an  hour  among 
those  hills  where  the  winds  blow  in  tempests  of  joy,  where 
cataract  answers  to  cataract  in  riotous  music.  But  the 
day  is  hurrying  along.  Let  us  start." 

So  we  went  down  stream. 

"  Isn't  it  a  glorious  afternoon  ?  Throw  down  yonder. 
I  saw  the  wave  of  a  fin  in  the  eddy  under  that  rock — 
good — a  half-pounder,  the  best  fish  to-day." 

"  Yes,  and  the  best  this  season  in  the  Pemigewasset. 
I  believe  the  trout  in  this  brook  never  would  grow  large. 
Can  they  be  a  small  variety,  a  species  that  do  not  exceed 
a  quarter  of  a  pound  except  -in  rare  instances  of  mon- 
sters ?" 

My  friend's  idea  was  one  that  I  have  often  had.  I  have 
fished  this  river  for  a  great  many  years,  and  I  never  took 
but  one  trout  weighing  a  pound  in  it,  and  he  was  probably 
a  wanderer  from  the  lake.  It  is  just  possible,  however, 
that  all  the  large  fish  go  up  into  Profile  Lake,  and  all  the 
small  fish  come  down  into  the  brook.  The  Cascade 
brook,  however,  is  different.  Here  at  the  junction  we 
often  take  such  fish  as  that  half-pounder,  and  as  we  go 
up  we  find  the  run  of  trout  much  larger  than  in  the  Pem- 
igewasset, until  we  come  to  the  Moran  Lake  brook.  In 


2l8  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

that  we  have  good  fish,  and  the  lake  is  crowded  with  large 
and  small  fish.  We  have  killed  a  great  many  pound  and 
some  two-pound  fish  in  it,  and  we  see  thousands  of  small 
fry. 

"  Isn't  that  a  beauty  ?" 

I  was  lifting  out  a  small  Pemigewasset  trout.  Of  all 
fish  in  the  world  I  think  they  are  the  most  beautiful. 
They  look  like  translucent  fish,  or  as  if  there  was  a  light 
in  them  shining  out  through  a  pearl  skin,  which  has  a  soft, 
peachy,  flesh  tint,  with  spots  of  gold  and  red  standing  out 
of  it.  The  clearness  of  their  tints  is  due  to  the  purity  of 
the  water.  The  color  of  a  trout  depends  on  the  water  he 
is  in,  and  on  the  position  of  his  latest  repose.  Lying  in 
the  dark  he  becomes  dark,  and  lying  in  sunshine  he  loses 
all  his  dark  tints.  The  change  is  effected  in  a  brief  time. 
An  hour  or  two  will  suffice  to  change  a  black  trout  into  a 
bright  light  color,  and  vice  versa.  A  dead  trout  bleaches 
rapidly.  If  you  place  your  trout  at  night  in  a  flowing 
stream  of  water,  you  will  find  in  the  morning  that  all  the 
dark  color  in  the  skin  is  gone.  If  a  trout  just  killed  is 
allowed  to  lie  on  the  bottom  of  a  boat  or  on  a  wet  board, 
he  will  change  his  color  where  the  skin  touches  the  board 
in  fifteen  minutes.  The  variation  in  tint  is  no  indication 
of  difference  in  species.  In  a  pond  in  the  northern  Adi- 
rondack region,  known  as  Bay  Pond,  the  trout  have  a  very 
singular  characteristic.  They  are  sprinkled  with  small 
black  spots  over  all  parts  of  the  body,  as  if  peppered  for 
the  table.  These  spots  are  in  the  skin  under  the  scale, 
and  would  seem  to  be  the  result  of  disease.  But  the 
trout  are  vigorous  and  healthy,  fine  in  flavor  and  firm  in 
meat,  and  have  the  reputation  of  being  very  strong  for 
their  weight.  This  peculiarity  is  found  on  fish  of  all 
sizes,  but  I  have  never  seen  a  trout  of  less  than  two  years' 


THE   TORRENT.  2  19 

age  from  this  pond,  and  am  unable  to  say  at  how  early  a 
time  the  spots  appear. 

We  had  resumed  our  rods,  and  were  wading  side  by 
side  down  the  river.  From  the  junction  of  the  Cascade 
brook  the  Pemigewasset  flows  in  a  rapid  stream  over 
rocks,  without  any  deep  holes,  till  it  reaches  the  bridge. 
Few  trout  are  to  be  found  along  this  reach.  Just  above 
and  just  below  the  bridge  we  found  plenty  of  small  fish, 
and  on  this  day  we  counted  seventy  from  the  still  water 
below.  Then  we  pushed  on  down  stream  to  the  gorge. 
The  torrent  had  become  fierce  and  strong,  and  the  roar 
at  the  head  of  the  first  fall  was  so  loud  that  we  could  not 
hear  each  other  shout  at  ten  paces'  distance.  Every 
plunge  of  the  river  now  went  into  a  deep  pool,  from 
which  we  took  several  fish,  averaging  about  a  quarter  of 
a  pound,  with  an  occasional  larger  one.  It  was  no  longer 
possible  to  wade,  except  close  along  the  edges,  nor  often 
there.  At  one  spot  we  paused,  where  the  stream  nar- 
rowed between  high  rocks.  On  the  right  bank  a  smooth 
slope  of  rock  fell  into  ten  feet  of  rushing  foam,  the  upper 
edge  of  the  slope,  skirted  with  brush,  some  twenty  feet 
above  the  water.  The  left  bank  showed  a  ledge  of  rock 
down  which  one  might  go,  if  it  were  possible  to  cross.  I 
tried  the  passage  cautiously,  step  by  step,  careful  to  se- 
cure the  position  of  one  foot  before  I  lifted  the  other.  In 
mid-stream,  with  three  feet  of  wild  water  sweeping  around 
me,  I  looked  back  and  saw  Dupont  working  along  the 
sloping  rock,  almost  over  my  head,  holding  by  the  bushes, 
and  swinging  himself  along  hand  over  hand  for  twenty 
feet,  until  he  reached  a  ledge  below.  How  he  held  his 
rod  I  can  not  imagine.  I  crossed,  and  we  did  not  speak 
to  each  other  for  a  half-hour  after  that.  The  thunder  of 
the  river  rose  between  us.  When  I  rejoined  him  it  was 


220  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

by  a  series  of  long  leaps  from  rock  to  rock,  on  one  of 
which  my  wet  boots  slipped,  and  I  sat  down,  slid  forward, 
and  lost  my  momentum  only  on  the  edge  of  the  stone. 
Six  inches  farther  would  have  ended  my  fishing  experi- 
ence, for  the  strongest  swimmer  would  have  had  his 
brains  dashed  out  in  that  wild  fall  of  water.  Again  and 
again  we  climbed  the  rocks  two  hundred  feet,  to  descend 
again  within  two  rods  of  where  we  had  left  the  stream. 
Perhaps  this  sounds  like  folly.  The  folly,  if  there  were 
any,  was  in  starting  at  all  down  the  gorge.  Once  started, 
there  is  no  turning  back,  for  after  the  first  few  rods  down 
that  ravine  the  easiest  way  out  is  to  go  through. 

We  slipped  side  by  side  down  a  smooth  rock,  unable  to 
stay  the  swift  descent  by  any  grasp  of  the  fingers  or 
pressure  of  the  palms,  and  brought  up,  a  mass  of  rods, 
baskets,  and  fishermen,  in  a  heap  of  moss. 

"  When  will  you  remember  to  leave  that  ring  at  home, 
instead  of  wearing  it  in  such  work  as  this  ?"  said  Dupont. 

I  acknowledged  the  error,  as  I  had  several  times  be- 
fore, and  transferred  the  ring  from  finger  to  pocket.  "  Ars 
est  longa,  vita  brevis,"  said  I,  as  I  gathered  myself  and 
my  traps  together,  and  sat  down  to  take  breath  in  the 
comparative  silence  of  the  nook  into  which  we  had  fallen. 

"  Apropos  of  what  is  that  very  trite  remark  ?" 

"  The  ring.  If,  as  some  have  supposed,  the  soul  of  the 
artist  lingers  around  his  beautiful  work,  what  an  odd  scene 
Solon  must  think  this.  When  he  engraved  that  ring,  I 
fancy  he  did  not  expect  to  follow  it  to  this  wild  gorge. 
If  he  follows  any  of  his  work  he  follows  this,  for  more 
perfect  never  left  his  hands.  Cupid  is  living,  breathing, 
struggling,  as  he  reaches  out  his  hands  to  catch  and  clasp 
the  fluttering  Psyche.  What  a  perfect  statue  is  the  little 
fellow  now  that  this  sunshine  lights  the  sard." 


FISHING   AND   TALKING.  221 

"  Cupid  and  Psyche  in  the  gorge  of  the  Pemigewasset ! 
Push  on,  Effendi,  and  take  a  trout  out  of  that  pool." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  what  is  out  of  place  in  these  fishing 
days  of  ours?  Have  we  not  talked  of  every  subject  un- 
der and  many  above  the  skies  along  the  bank  of  this 
river  ?  Don't  you  remember  that  day  when  we  were  sit- 
ting on  the  rock  under  the  bridge,  and  Doctor was 

with  us  ?  He  had  worked  hard  at  the  trout,  had  taken 
fifty,  and  was  drawing  his  hook  artistically  in  the  deep 
rapid :  I  thought  he  was  intent  on  trout.  Not  he.  He 
came  down  suddenly  on  me  with  a  question  about  Bac- 
trian  coins,  of  which  I  knew  as  much  as  I  knew  about  the 
currency  of  the  moon.  He  could  not  tell  when  I  asked 
him  what  had  suggested  such  a  question  in  connection 
with  trout-fishing ;  but  I  fancy  it  was  by  a  rapid  series  of 
thoughts.  He  thinks  about  as  much  in  old  languages  as 
in  English,  and  either  an  old  Greek  word  for  a  rod  or  staff 
(ftaKTrjpia),  or  the  sight  of  a  frog,  not  uncommon,  and  the 
Greek  fia-paxoe,  had  suggested  Bactria,  and  off  we  start- 
ed on  a  numismatic  discussion,  which  carried  us  from  the 
Ionian  shores  all  along  the  coasts  of  Greece,  and  even  to 
Sicily  and  Italy." 

Every  man  seems  to  find  in  the  gentle  art  abundant 
suggestion  and  opportunity  of  thinking  about  his  own 
special  hobby,  if  he  have  one.  I  had  the  evidence  of  this 
that  day.  For  ten  minutes  after  we  had  started  again 
clown  the  ravine  I  was  sitting  again  on  a  rock,  looking  at 
the  lofty  cliffs,  and  recognizing  a  resemblance  in  the 
scene  to  a  wonderful  engraving  by  Diirer,  in  many  re- 
spects the  finest  illustration  of  thought  ever  put  on  paper 
in  the  form  of  a  picture.  Of  course  I  mean  "The  Knight 
and  Death."  So  I  lost  myself  in  a  trot,  "all  alone  by 
myself,"  on  one  of  my  hobbies,  namely,  the  early  history 


222  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

of  illustration  by  pictures ;  and  while  I  was  cantering 
away  on  this,  Dupont  went  wading  and  climbing,  climb- 
ing and  wading  down  stream,  and  when  I  came  to  my 
senses  I  had  lost  him,  or  he  had  lost  me,  which  is  much 
the  same.  He  had  actually  passed  me  without  seeing  me 
or  being  seen,  and  I  thought  he  must  still  be  up  stream. 
In  fishing  such  water,  anglers  should  keep  near  each 
other.  An  accident  may  well  happen ;  and  a  broken  limb 
or  a  sprained  ankle  would  be  a  serious  business  to  one 
alone  in  that  gorge,  whence  in  such  case  he  could  only 
get  out  by  sending  for  stout  assistance.  I  sat  a  half- 
hour,  then  went  a  few  rods  down,  and  fortunately  found 
Dupont's  foot-print  still  wet  on  a  flat  rock.  Then  I  pushed 
on,  and  a  hundred  yards  below  saw  him  sitting,  where  he 
had  been  waiting  a  half-hour  for  me.  He  had  reached 
the  Ultima  Thule  of  that  day's  sport,  and  as  I  was  not 
there  he  knew  he  must  have  passed  me. 

Below  us  the  stream  plunged  down  the  heaviest  cata- 
ract in  the  gorge,  and  the  rocks  rose  perpendicular  a  hun- 
dred feet  on  each  side.  The  first  time  we  went  down 
there  we  were  an  hour  in  getting  out.  Back  we  could  not 
go,  for  the  last  few  rods  had  been  by  leaps  downward  from 
rock  to  rock,  which  we  could  not  climb  to  return.  At  last 
we  discovered  a  way  out,  and  we  have  used  it  often  since. 
Climbing  a  singular  mass  of  rocks,  covered  with  brush 
and,  on  its  top,  with  some  large  trees,  we  found  the  trunk 
of  a  fallen  tree  reaching  over  a  chasm  some  thirty  feet 
deep  and  full  twenty  wide.  The  branches  were  nearly 
all  gone,  such  as  remained  only  serving  to  bother  our  feet 
as  we  walked  across  it,  and  then  dug  our  finger-nails  in 
the  roughnesses  of  a  sloping  face  of  granite  which  came 
down  from  bushes  fifty  feet  or  so  above.  Up  this  we 
crawled  on  hands  and  knees,  in  fact  flat  on  our  faces  once 


A   RIDE   TO    POLLARDS.  223 

in  a  while,  till  we  could  grasp  a  bush,  then  up  on  our 
feet,  and  along  the  hill-top  to  the  path  which  leads  from 
the  Flume  House  to  the  pool,  and  so  up  to  the  road 
where  the  good  horse  Jack  with  the  buck-board  was  wait- 
ing for  us. 

A  day's  fishing  like  this  gives  us  no  large  fish,  and  so 
many  small  ones  that  we  seldom  count  them.  We  often 
have  from  four  to  five  hundred  trout  in  our  baskets  as  the 
result  of  such  a  day  on  the  Pemigewasset. 

There  is  much  to  be  found  besides  trout  in  the  valley 
of  the  Pemigewasset,  and  he  is  not  a  thoroughly  skilled 
angler  who  has  failed  to  learn  the  pleasure  of  finding 
people  and  character  and  life  in  instructive  forms  as  he 
goes  along  a  brook. 

The  morning  after  our  fishing  the  river  was  lowery  and 
threatening.  The  clouds  hung  low  and  the  mountain- 
tops  were  invisible.  But  with  a  conviction  that  the  day 
would  not  after  all  be  rainy,  I  determined  to  go  down  the 
valley  and  up  the  East  Branch  to  Pollard's,  to  make  some 
inquiries  about  the  possibility  and  practicability  of  an  ex- 
pedition up  that  valley  and  over  the  Willey  Mountain  to 
the  Crawford  Notch  and  Crawford  House. 

We  did  not  get  away  till  noon,  and  then  found  the 
roads  in  bad  order  from  heavy  rain  in  the  night. 

The  clouds  were  lifting,  but  their  aspect  on  the  mount- 
ain-sides was  full  of  solemn  magnificence.  Here  and 
there  they  were  lit  with  sunshine  vainly  seeking  to  burst 
through  them,  and  where  these  lights  occurred  the  white 
mists  seemed  full  of  life,  moving  in  wild  circles  or  hurry- 
ing back  and  forth  as  if  in  feeble  fright  at  their  approach- 
ing evanishment.  Far  down  the  valley,  under  the  long 
line  of  sombre  clouds,  there  was  a  break  of  blue  in  the 
distant  sky,  and  from  our  high  position  we  seemed  to  look 


224  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

down  to  it.  The  roar  of  the  Pemigewasset  all  along  the 
road  for  miles  was  like  the  sound  of  Niagara.  For  we 
had  had  heavy  rains  of  late,  and  the  rivers  were  swollen 
and  strong.  Mountain-top  was  bound  to  mountain-top 
by  the  great  mass  of  cloud.  We  traveled  under  a  vast 
arch  of  gloom. 

Two  miles  below  the  Flume  House  are  the  first  mill- 
dams  on  the  river,  and  as  trout  will  rise  to  a  fly  here  and 
lower  down  the  river,  I  pulled  up  to  try  a  few  casts  under 
the  first  dam.  The  behavior  of  a  trout-rod  is  sometimes 
inexplicable.  I  had  with  me  this  morning  a  heavy  fly- 
rod,  which  in  case  of  need  I  could  use  as  a  bait-rod.  It 
was  a  good  rod,  had  done  excellent  service,  and  I  thought 
was  trusty.  I  was  casting  only  twenty  feet  of  line,  and  at 
the  third  or  fourth  cast,  snap  went  the  second  joint  close 
at  the  ferrule.  The  occurrence  is  not  uncommon,  nor 
does  it  ordinarily  require  much  time  to  repair  such  a  dam- 
age, which  is  one  of  the  least  importance  to  which  rods 
are  liable.  I  kindled  a  small  fire  of  drift-wood,  extracted 
the  ferrule  from  that  of  the  butt,  burned  out  the  broken 
wood,  replaced  it  on  the  second  joint,  and  cast  again.  A 
small  fish,  not  over  four  ounces,  rose  to  the  fly.  I  struck 
him  as  gently  as  if  he  were  a  butterfly,  and  snap  went  the 
tip,  at  half  its  length.  There  were  extra  tips  in  the  rod- 
case  in  the  wagon,  and  one  was  soon  substituted,  and 
again  I  began  to  cast.  I  took  a  half-dozen  fish,  and  then, 
as  I  was  trying  to  throw  a  fly  very  lightly  through  an 
opening  in  the  falling  sheet  of  water  and  on  to  the  still 
water  behind  the  sheet  and  under  the  dam,  I  threw  two 
thirds  of  the  rod  away,  as  the  butt  broke  with  a  long  di- 
agonal split  from  the  ferrule  upward. 

A  writer  on  gaming  recommends  his  pupils  never  to  run 
against  luck,  but  when  they  find  it  decidedly  bad,  to  aban- 


GEORGIANA    FALLS.  225 

don  play  for  the  time.  It  is  sometimes  a  good  rule  for 
anglers,  but  for  the  reason  that  such  occurrences,  the 
successive  breakings  of  a  rod,  or  repeated  snarls  in 
one's  line,  or  the  recurring  loss  of  heavy  fish  after  hook- 
ing them,  may  almost  always  be  charged  to  the  condition 
of  body  or  mind  in  which  the  angler  is  fishing.  It  is 
nine  times  out  of  ten  his  fault  and  not  his  misfortune. 
Don't  abuse  your  rod  when  the  blame  belongs  to  your- 
self. 

A  plenty  of  silk  thread,  waxed  with  shoemaker's  wax. 
is  a  part  of  the  necessary  outfit  for  a  day's  fishing.  It 
should  be  in  the  pocket  of  every  fly-book,  and  in  every 
pocket  of  every  suit  of  fishing  clothes.  It  can't  be  too 
abundant.  With  a  good  knife  and  plenty  of  thread  one 
can  build  a  rod  in  the  woods  or  repair  any  break.  But  I 
took  the  hint  that  my  right  arm  must  be  out  of  order,  and 
having  spliced  the  butt  I  made  no  more  attempts  at  cast- 
ing under  the  mill-dam. 

Half  a  mile  below,  however,  we  crossed  the  Georgiana 
brook  just  above  its  junction  with  the  Pemigewasset. 
This  brook  rises  far  back  in  the  mountains  in  an  elevated 
basin,  where  lie  Bog  Pond  and  Bog  Eddy,  famous  for  large 
trout  and  plenty,  but  of  poor  flavor.  The  Georgiana  Falls 
were  visited  in  old  times  by  scenery  hunters,  reached 
only  by  a  long  walk  up  the  mountain  from  the  Flume 
House.  They  well  repaid  much  toil.  Of  late  years  the 
path  has  been  abandoned,  and  it  is  now  many  years  since 
the  falls  have  sunk  into  almost  oblivion.  But  they  plunge 
clown  the  rocky  wall  as  yellow  in  their  foam  as  ever,  for 
this  water  is  of  a  deep  dark  color,  and  from  such  water 
trout  seldom  come  without  the  woody  flavor. 

I  lingered  but  a  few  moments  near  the  bridge,  and  took 
out  a  half-dozen  small  fish,  all  nearly  black.  Ten  rods 

P 


226  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

below,  at  the  junction,  in  the  clear  water  of  the  Pemige- 
wasset,  I  took  two  fair-sized  fish,  shining  like  silver  tinged 
with  peach  blossoms.  The  difference  of  water  makes  all 
the  difference  of  color. 

Rejoining  L —  —  in  the  wagon,  we  drove  on,  and  about 
two  o'clock,  well  down  the  valley,  in  a  lonesome  place 
among  the  mountains,  we  pulled  up  in  front  of  a  small 
house,  and  asked  if  we  could  get  there  feed  for  horse  and 
man.  "For  horse,  yes;  for  man,  go  in  and  ask."  We 
went  in.  It  was  an  ancient  house  for  these  parts,  and 
we  found  in  it  only  one  person — a  representative  of  the 
ancient  days.  She  was  an  old  woman — that  was  evident 
— but  cheery  and  happy  in  voice  and  action. 

"  Can  you  give  us  something  to  eat,  Mrs.  T—  —  ?" 

"Well,  that  depends  on  what  you  want  to  have." 

"  How  about  bread  and  milk  ?" 

"  I  can  give  you  plenty  of  that,  and  I've  got  some  pork 
and  beans  in  the  oven." 

"  Good.  We'll  have  the  pork  and  beans  first,  and  then 
the  bread  and  milk." 

So  the  old  lady  bustled  about,  and  set  a  round  table, 
and  spread  a  clean  cloth  and  put  on  it  two  plates  and 
two  bowls,  and  opened  the  oven  and  brought  out  a  great 
pot  of  smoking  beans  and  set  before  us,  all  the  while  chat- 
ting gently,  very  gently,  and  pleasantly  and  cheerily,  al- 
beit her  hands  were  sorely  trembling  with  the  feebleness 
of  age. 

"  How  long  have  you  lived  in  this  valley,  Mrs.  T ?'' 

"  More  than  fifty  years.    How  old  do  you  think  I  am  ?" 

"  I  can't  guess ;  but  I  know  you  have  done  your  share 
of  work,  and  it  is  time  for  you  to  rest." 

"Yes,  my  folks  think  I'm  too  old  to  do  much  work. 
I'm  eightv-seven  years  old." 


EIGHTY-SEVEN    YEARS.  227 

There,  my  friend,  is  a  subject  for  your  thoughtful  con- 
sideration. Eighty-seven  years,  as  we  poor  mortals  count 
years  by  the  swing  of  the  globe,  and  fifty  of  them  in  this 
narrow  valley  between  two  mountains!  Eighty -seven 
peaceful  years  !  Eighty-seven  tempestuous  years  !  Which 
had  they  been  ?  It  matters  little  whether  they  who  travel 
this  pilgrimage  of  life  travel  in  lonesome  valleys  or  in 
crowded  city  streets.  Life  every  where  is  calm  or  stormy, 
as  God  gives  it,  and  there  are  tempests  that  shake  the 
soul  of  man  or  of  woman  in  mountain  recesses  as  fierce 
as  the  storms  that  sweep  over  us  in  the  deserts  that  we 
call  social  life. 

But  I  think  sometimes  that  the  memories  of  old  age, 
such  as  hers  must  be,  are  greatly  to  be  envied ;  and,  after 
I  had  paid  for  our  dinner  and  we  were  driving  along  the 
wild  road  up  the  East  Branch,  I  began  to  imagine  what 
hers  perhaps  might  be,  and  to  contrast  them  with  my  own 
memories  of  a  more  brief,  but  doubtless,  in  most  men's 
estimation,  more  eventful  life. 

Looking  out  of  her  windows  in  the  evening  she  saw 
the  sunlight  shining  on  the  mountain-top  as  he  had  shone 
for  fifty  years,  and  the  same  tall  pine-tree  on  the  summit 
had  in  all  those  years  been  the  last  purple  beacon  of  each 
departing  day.  The  mountains  are  not  so  high  to  her 
old  eyes  as  they  used  to  be,  for  heaven  has  come  down 
nearer  to  her.  It  is  a  blessing  of  old  age,  when  it  does 
not  seem  so  much  that  the  weary  pilgrimage  is  tending 
upward  toward  the  land  of  rest,  as  that  the  blessed  coun- 
try is  somehow  brought  nearer,  as  if  it  had  come  down 
from  God.  For  John,  in  his  old  age,  saw  the  Holy  City 
descending  ;  and  many,  like  the  aged  watcher  in  Patmos, 
have  learned  to  look  upward  and  say,  "Come,  Lord,"  in- 
stead of  saying,  "Take  me  away."  And  most  of  all  this 


228  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

is  true  of  those  who  have  outlived  the  beloved  of  old 
time ;  for  the  gathering  feet  of  the  dear  ones  gone  press 
down  the  very  blue  above  us,  and  bring  heaven  very  near. 
Down  the  valley  a  little  way  is  the  grave-yard  in  which 
she  had  laid  a  great  many  dear  forms  of  affection,  and 
had  seen  her  stout  sons  cover  them  out  of  her  sight  with 
the  valley  earth.  A  great  many  I  say,  but  we  who  live  in 
crowds  all  our  lives  might  think  the  number  few.  There 
are  only  eleven  inhabitants  in  the  township  in  which  she 
lives.  There  are  something  more  than  twice  eleven  sleep- 
ers in  the  grave-yard,  but  she  knew  them  all,  every  one 
of  them — old  as  well  as  young,  and,  standing  by  their 
graves,  she  could  tell  you  the  story  of  each  one's  life  and 
sorrow  or  joy  and  death.  We  live  among  cemeteries 
where  we  hesitate  to  leave  our  dead,  in  cold  and  lonesome 
solitude,  among  strangers  by  the  thousand.  Here  they 
who  sleep  near  each  other  are  all  of  them  old  friends,  or 
the  children  of  friends,  and  it  is  not  so  hard  to  leave  the 
dear  ones  in  such  company. 

The  epochs  in  her  life  are  all  marked  in  the  grave- 
yard. The  great  events  to  which  her  memory  goes  back 
with  most  profound  regard  are  there  registered.  Nature 
around  her  was  unchanged,  unchanging.  Sunshine  and 
storm,  indeed,  alternated  on  the  mountain-sides,  but  the 
very  alternation  had  a  sameness  that  was  like  the  hills 
themselves.  Only,  from  time  to  time,  when  God  gave  her 
sorrow,  in  floods  like  the  spring  floods  of  the  Pemigewas- 
set,  she  bowed  and  was  well-nigh  overwhelmed,  but  the 
mountains  were  the  same  every  morning  though  the  storm 
had  been  fierce  in  the  night,  and  so  at  length  she  grew  to 
be  like  them,  unchanged  by  flood  or  storm,  only  purified. 
What  a  little  world  this  valley  home  has  been  for  fifty 
vears ! 


WOMEN    IN    HEAVEN.  229 

Do  not  imagine,  my  friend,  that  the  great  trials  of  your 
life,  the  strifes  and  agonizings  which  you  have  gone 
through,  are  peculiar.  In  some  sense  they  may  be  so, 
and  every  heart  knows  his  own  bitterness;  but  God  on  his 
white  throne  saw  with  the  same  infinite  tenderness  the 
anguish  of  the  old  woman  in  the  Pemigewasset  valley 
and  the  anguish  of  emperor  or  pope  mourning  for  the  be- 
loved dead;  and  there  are  thousands  of  just  such  homes, 
and  in  every  home  a  sorrow,  in  every  home  a  memory 
that  comes  with  the  twilight,  and  grows  mighty  in  the 
dark  night,  and  over  every  one,  above  mountain-top  and 
cloud  and  storm,  the  everlasting  pity  of  the  Master. 

But  why  dwell  on  sorrows  when,  as  I  told  you,  she  was 
cheery  and  bright,  and  it  was  evident  abundantly  that  she 
had  no  heavy  load  of  memory  to  carry.  Life  had  rippled 
along  as  the  river  rippled  over  its  rocky  bed,  flashing  in 
the  light  of  the  sun,  glowing  silver-bright  under  the  moon, 
gleaming  with  reflected  starlight.  There  had  been  dark 
days  and  days  of  flood,  but  after  a  little  the  current  went 
gently  on  in  its  old  channel,  and  made  music  for  itself. 
Why  should  she  be  sad  ?  Life  is  not  so  well  worth  living 
that  the  other  life  is  not  better,  and  that  other  has  more 
abundant  joy,  even  of  the  sort  that  we  best  love  here. 
The  "hills  of  heaven  shine  with  more  serene  glory  than 
these  hills  of  ours,  and  when  she  has  lived  in  some  valley 
of  the  holy  land,  long,  long  after  these  granite  hills  are 
crumbled  and  gone,  she  will  not  feel  old,  but  ever  young 
— forever  young. 

I  once  asked  a  learned  Mohammedan  in  Egypt  wheth- 
er he  believed  that  women  would  go  to  heaven  (for  it  is 
an  error  to  think  that  houries  are  mere  women),  and  what 
he  thought  of  the  Prophet's  saying  that  there  are  no  old 
women  there.  He  replied,  giving  what  is  I  believe  the 


230  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

orthodox  creed  of  Islam,  that  women  will  be  saved  like 
men,  and  will  all  be  made  young  again — except  one  wom- 
an. And  her  story  is  somewhat  interesting.  When  Jo- 
seph was  viceroy  in  Egypt  he  was  riding  out  one  day 
near  Memphis,  and  an  old  woman  seizing  him  by  the 
knee  demanded  charity.  He  turned  to  look  at  her,  and 
was  so  shocked  at  her  appearance  that  he  involuntarily 
exclaimed  "  How  terribly  homely  you  are." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  pray  to  your  God,  who  answers 
all  your  prayers,  and  ask  him  to  make  me  beautiful  ?" 

Whereupon  Joseph  lifted  up  his  hands  and  prayed  for 
her,  and  instantly  beheld  her,  standing  by  him,  young  and 
lovely,  so  lovely  that  he  loved  her  and  made  her  his  wife; 
and  she  grew  old  and  died  long  after  him,  and  went  to 
heaven  and  is  an  old  woman  there,  and  the  only  old 
woman  in  heaven,  for  God  makes  all  good  women 
young  again  once,  but  only  once,  and  she  can  never 
be  made  young  again.  An  Egyptian  village  perpetu- 
ates in  its  name  (Badrashain)  the  story  of  this  wife  of 
Joseph. 

Eternal  youth  !  Why  is  it  that  we  are  all  so  fond  of 
this  idea  of  youth,  and  constantly  in  our  dreams  of  eter- 
nal blessedness  thinking  of  ourselves  and  our  friends  as 
there  to  be  young  ?  The  youth  of  heaven  is  not  to  be 
what  we  call  youth  here.  There  is  freshness  and  purity 
in  the  young  soul,  but  I  fancy  we  think  too  much  of  the 
body  and  its  vigor  and  beauty  when  we  picture  the  joys 
of  heaven.  There  is  a  greater  beauty,  a  more  stately  and 
impressive  and  winning  beauty,  a  certain  beatitude  some- 
times in  extreme  old  age  unknown  to  the  most  brilliant 
youth.  Measuring  time  by  our  very  insufficient  stand- 
ards, we  call  eighty  years  old  age,  but  the  eternal  youth 
of  heaven  is  youth  because  eternity  stretches  forever  be- 


THE   STREAM    OF    LIFE.  231 

fore  it,  and  there  is  no  period  of  maturity — much  less  of 
feeble  age  to  which  it  looks  forward. 

Standing  in  front  of  the  house  in  which  the  old  lady 
had  given  us  our  simple  meal,  I  could  look  up  the  valley 
ten  miles  to  the  very  head,  where  I  knew  a  spring  of 
clear  cold  water  poured  out  under  a  lofty  rock.  For 
fifty  years  she  had  looked  up  the  valley  daily,  and  as  the 
years  passed  she  must  have  thought  often  that  the  view 
was  very  like  her  own  view  back  through  the  way  she 
had  traveled.  The  spring  spreads  first  into  a  silver  lake, 
whose  beauty  is  beyond  words  to  describe.  So  her  child- 
hood passed  into  sunlit  youth,  where  we  all  of  us  linger 
longest  in  the  journey  of  life.  "  Hie  breve  vivitur,"  said 
Bernard,  and  then  added,  "  hie  breve  plangitur,  hie  breve 
fletur."  Life  is  short,  but  so  too  are  its  sorrow  and 
mourning,  and  for  most  of  us  youth  is  long  joy,  full  of  de- 
lights. But  the  stream  leaves  the  lake  and  plunges  into 
the  forest,  struggling  along  through  masses  of  tangled 
brush,  and  over  the  trunks  of  fallen  trees  and  in  dark 
ravines,  receiving  strength  as  it  progresses,  and  overcom- 
ing with  steadfast  purpose  all  opposing  obstacles.  Then 
it  sweeps  along  for  miles  in  a  glorious  current,  here  lit  by 
sunshine,  there  shaded  by  masses  of  rich  verdure,  until  it 
enters  a  mountain  gorge  and  goes  down  successive  cat- 
aracts. Can  that  wild  white  water,  foaming  in  rage, 
writhing  in  agony,  beaten,  baffled,  moaning  and  lifting  up 
its  floods  to  God  in  despair,  can  that  stream  of  life  ever 
again  be  placid  ?  Lo,  here  in  front  of  the  cottage  it 
lapses  softly  over  a  mossy  bed,  and  will  flow  on  and  on 
into  the  great  sea  on  whose  deeps  the  wildest  storms  have 
no  effect,  save  only  to  make  on  its  surface  waves  which 
to  its  vast  soundings  are  less  by  far  than  were  the  ripples 
on  the  lake  of  vouth. 


232  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

You  get  more  fancies  than  facts  in  some  days'  fishing, 
and  thus  it  was  with  me.  These  are  parts  of  the  angler's 
life,  and  I  wish  every  angler  would  make  a  book  to  de- 
scribe the  rises  of  this  sort  that  he  gets,  and  the  thoughts 
which  come  up  to  his  thoughtless  casting. 

The  day  was  advanced  before  we  reached  Pollard's 
that  afternoon.  The  valley  of  the  East  Branch  lies  south 
of  Mount  Lafayette,  and  heads  up  within  two  miles  of  the 
Crawford  Notch.  As  you  ascend  it  the  hills  separate, 
and  I  think  there  is  nowhere  in  our  northern  Alps  a  more 
beautiful  view  than  is  spread  out  in  every  direction  from 
Pollard's  house,  the  last  lonesome  farm-house  far  up  the 
valley. 

I  have  said  that  I  went  to  make  some  inquiries,  and 
these  were  soon  answered  to  my  dissatisfaction.  There 
was  once  a  wood-road,  leading  some  miles  up  the  East 
Branch,  above  the  Pollard  farm.  It  is  now  grown  up  so 
that  one  can  not  go  on  horseback  more  than  two  miles 
from  the  house.  I  abandoned  the  idea  of  going  to  the 
Willey  Pond  by  this  route,  and  we  drove  rapidly  home- 
ward. 

The  clouds  which  had  been  threatening  us  now  and 
then  during  the  day  were  driving  black  and  furious  down 
the  Notch.  They  rested  low  on  the  hills,  so  that  five 
hundred  feet  above  us  on  each  side  the  mountains  were 
enveloped  in  mist  which  stretched  across  over  head  like 
a  curtain,  black,  gloomy,  rolling,  tossing,  folding  and  un- 
folding on  the  hill-sides,  changing  in  a  thousand  ways, 
but  never  breaking  its  murky  thickness. 

As  we  approached  the  Profile  House  it  seemed  like  the 
twilight  of  a  night  about  to  close  in  with  tempestuous 
darkness.  No  light  in  the  forest,  no  light  on  the  cloud 
curtain,  no  mountain-top  pointing  upward.  All  was  de- 


THE   CURTAIN    Of    GOLD.  233 

pressing,  heavy,  gloomy,  and  we  felt  like  prisoners ;  nay, 
I  fancy  we  felt  somewhat  like  the  man  in  the  iron  room, 
who  saw,  year  by  year,  the  ceiling  slowly  but  steadily  de- 
scending to  crush  him.  We  scarcely  spoke  to  one  another 
as  we  drove  homeward. 

And  then,  just  as  we  reached  the  hotel,  came  a  burst 
of  splendor  which  I  have  no  words  to  describe.  Right 
up  the  gorge  the  clouds  had  suddenly  vanished,  as  if  by 
the  word  of  the  One  who  rideth  on  them.  The  horizon, 
the  whole  triangle  formed  by  the  sloping  hill-sides  and 
the  line  of  the  curtain  over  our  heads,  was  clear  as  crystal, 
and  the  sun  poured  the  glow  of  its  last  rays  undimmed 
right  down  the  valley,  under  the  curtain  which  still  over- 
hung us.  In  an  instant  the  curtain,  which  had  been  so 
black  and  fierce,  became  a  mass  of  waving  gold.  From 
hill  to  hill  it  flamed  over  us  in  indescribable  splendor. 
The  mists  on  the  mountain-sides  were  transformed  into 
all  manner  of  gorgeous  -  colored  and  fantastic  shapes. 
Now  they  flew  down  the  ravine  like  hosts  of  frightened 
angels,  turning  and  seeking  shelter  in  every  ravine,  under 
every  rocky  ledge  —  then  flying  on  again.  Now  they 
climbed  the  hills,  swiftly  crowding  one  over  another,  as  if 
they  were  visible  spirits  of  light  climbing  the  golden  hills 
of  heaven.  Then  the  great  curtain  went  rolling  away 
and  vanished  in  all  its  golden  glory,  as  if  gathered  by  in- 
visible hands  swiftly  up  into  heaven,  revealing  as  it  swept 
away,  high  up  in  their  majesty,  solemn,  grand,  and  yet 
most  holy  in  the  radiance  that  now  surrounded  them,  the 
cliffs  of  the  Eagles  standing  in  an  azure  sky.  So  after  a 
life  of  storm  and  a  death  of  hope  stands  the  memory  of 
the  good  man  gone  home.  So,  after  all  gloom  and  all 
doubt,  and  all  varieties  of  thought  and  creed,  stands  the 
sublime  faith  in  which  our  fathers  have  died.  So  after 


234  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

storms  forever  comes  the  calm  ;  so  after  gloom  always 
comes  the  glory. 

When  I  reached  my  rooms  I  found  John  Steenburger 
and  Doctor  Johnston  disputing,  with  unbecoming  ferocity 
of  voice  and  manner,  the  rendering  of  a  passage  in  Per- 
sius ;  and  when  I  came  up  after  dinner  they  were  still 
at  it. 


XII. 

ON  ECHO  LAKE. 

"  I'M  going  to  bed,"  said  the  Doctor  at  length,  and  off 
he  went,  leaving  John  and  myself  alone. 

"This  is  like  old  times,"  said  Steenburger  as  he  drew 
his  chair  up  before  the  fire.  "  I  like  this  place.  I  used 
to  think  it  the  limit  of  all  my  travels  to  get  as  far  off  as 
this,  and  of  all  hopes  of  travel.  I  don't  like  it  less,  or  any 
other  place  better  even  now." 

"  One  may  go  much  farther  and  see  nothing  better 
worthy  his  eye-sight.  My  hand  is  lame  to-night,  John. 
Bring  me  that  book,  please  ;  that's  a  good  fellow.  I  have 
worked  hard  to-day,  what  with  driving  and  fishing." 

"  I  should  think  so.     Where  have  you  been  ?" 

"  Up  the  East  Branch  to  Pollard's ;  and  what  a  drive 
home  that  was  !  The  last  rays  of  the  sun  made  the  Eagle 
.  Cliff  shine  out  in  golden  splendor  beyond  all  words  to 
speak  of." 

"This  valley  reminds  me  sometimes  of  Chamouni. 
The  lights  of  the  afternoon  sun  are  often  the  same." 

"  Yes  ;  but  nowhere  in  the  world  is  there  any  thing  to 
match  the  grandeur  of  that  Profile.  It  is  the  American 
wonder  of  the  world.  Niagara  is  nothing  to  it.  It  grows 
on  me  from  year  to  year.  The  unutterable  calmness  of 
that  face  high  up  in  the  clouds  is  more  impressive  than 
the  loftiest  mountain  or  the  most  thunderous  cataract." 


236  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

"  I  remember  years  ago  you  startled  me  with  an  idea 
as  we  were  floating  on  the  lake  one  afternoon.  We  had 
not  spoken  for  a  long  time,  when  you  suddenly  said, 
'John,  God  made  that  face  in  the  mountain  before  he 
had  formed  man  in  his  own  image.'  I  never  wondered 
after  that  at  the  old  story  that  the  Indians  worshiped  the 
great  stone  face." 

"  It  is  only  a  story.  They  never  worshiped  it.  But 
the  son  of  the  forest  was  undoubtedly  deeply  impressed 
with  the  grandeur  of  that  face.  Its  immutability  in  sun 
and  storm  could  not  but  give  to  the  red  man,  however 
thoughtless,  the  idea  of  immortality.  He  looked  at  it, 
and  I  do  not  think  he  could  fail  to  catch  the  idea  that 
the  rocky  face,  stern,  cold,  and  unimpressed  with  mind  or 
thought,  could  not  be  equal  in  duration  to  the  existence 
of  man.  The  very  clouds  that  drift  over  it,  dashing  their 
cold  mists  on  the  forehead  of  the  mountain-man,  taught 
him  not  to  worship  it.  The  winds  that  swept  across  it, 
with  tempestuous  laughter  and  moans,  forbade  him  to 
think  of  it  as  other  than  a  strange  work  of  the  Great  Spirit, 
without  soul,  an  emblem,  a  lesson.  Nature  spoke  to  him, 
and  the  face  on  the  mountain  had  its  voice,  but  com- 
manded only  his  respect  for  the  mighty  sculptor.  Nature 
does  not  teach  idolatry.  That  is  one  of  the  grandest  les- 
sons of  such  scenery  as  this.  The  Chamouni  Hymn,  not 
Coleridge's,  but  the  German — who  was  it  ?  I  forget — is 
very  fine  and  tells  the  whole  truth.  The  glacier,  the  Alp, 
the  clouds,  all  alike  speak  of  one  '  to  whom,  wild  Arvei- 
ron,  rolls  up  the  sound  of  thy  terrible  harmonies.'  " 

"  I  have  never  seen  such  evening  lights  as  we  have 
here." 

"  Nor  I.  The  grandeur  of  evening  in  the  Franconia 
Notch  is  beyond  all  words — nay,  is  beyond  human  ability 


ROSY   MOUNTAINS.  237 

to  appreciate.  There  are  higher  mountains,  deeper  ra- 
vines, more  precipitous  cliffs  in  the  world,  but  nowhere  in 
my  wanderings  have  I  found  such  lights  as  the  departing 
sun  leaves  on  the  white  hills  of  New  Hampshire.  Some- 
times in  the  Tyrol  I  have  seen  an  approximation  to  this 
peculiarity,  but  only  a  distant  approach.  One  I  remem- 
ber in  the  valley  of  the  Litany,  when  Hermon,  snowy  with 
his  frozen  dews,  blushed  in  the  evening  over  the  departed 
glory  of  the  once  Holy  Land ;  and  the  blush  changed  at 
last  into  the  purple  tint  that  seemed  as  if  it  were  a  far-off 
feeling  of  the  glory  from  the  chariot  wheels  of  the  Lord. 
But  the  way  of  his  journeying  was  remote,  and  the  glory 
was  but  for  an  instant,  and  vanished,  and  a  sudden  black- 
ness, a  cold  cloud  of  gloom,  covered  the  hill  and  fell  into 
the  valley  from  Jebel-es-Sheik,  and  the  sound  of  the  Lita- 
ny was  like  the  sound  of  mourning. 

"  The  Alps  boast  of  their  rosy  tints,  and  they  are  ex- 
ceedingly beautiful,  sometimes  very  gorgeous,  as  who  has 
not  seen  the  Jungfrau  from  Interlaken,  or  Monte  Rosa 
from  the  Cathedral  of  Milan.  I  have  never  seen  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  but  I  have  been  told  these  same  lights 
which  characterize  the  White  Hills  are  not  uncommon  on 
our  western  peaks.  This  I  know,  that  no  capacity  for  en- 
joyment is  sufficient  to  appreciate  the  variety  and  change 
of  the  sunset  and  evening  lights  in  the  Franconia  Notch 
— and  though  one  has  seen  them  a  thousand  times,  he 
sees  them  each  evening  with  new  and  sober  delight,  some- 
times rising  into  awe." 

"  Do  you  know,  Effendi,  that  the  greatness  of  that  Pro- 
file oppresses  me.  I  have  been  drifting  around  Profile 
Lake  all  the  afternoon  and  evening  in  your  boat,  and 
studying  the  face.  It  becomes  a  sort  of  fascination,  and 
by  no  means  a  pleasant  one.  You  have  seen  the  Lord 


238  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

Chancellor  in  the  pass  of  Glencoe,  and  a  dozen  other  such 
freaks  of  nature,  but  there  is  nothing  remotely  to  be  com- 
pared with  this.  The  expression  of  his  countenance  is 
often  fearfully  like  life.  I  have  been  all  this  evening 
dwelling  on  a  fancy  that  in  the  remote  ages,  before  the 
first  Osirtasen  was  king  in  Egypt,  or  the  race  of  Ninus 
were  on  the  thrones  of  Asia,  there  was  here  a  nation  born 
of  the  sons  of  Noah,  who  built  a  city  and  inhabited  the 
mountain  country;  that  in  process  of  time  they  grew  to 
be  very  great  and  powerful,  and  their  fame  went  abroad 
through  the  continent;  that  the  fate  of  nations,  that  des- 
tiny of  which  the  history  of  the  past  is  the  solemn  proph- 
et for  all  the  future,  overtook  this  unknown  race  ;  that 
war,  famine,  and  pestilence  swept  them  away ;  that  the 
convulsions  of  the  earth  hurled  the  mountains  down  on 
the  ruins  of  their  palaces,  and  after  some  mighty  earth- 
quake that  sent  the  great  rocks  from  the  very  summits  of 
the  hills,  filling  the  valleys,  crushing  the  forests,  hiding 
deep  under  rock  and  earth  all  traces  of  the  old  glories, 
yonder  sad  countenance  was  visible  for  the  first  time,  and 
visible  thenceforth  forever,  looking  steadfastly  downward 
to  the  grave  of  a  forgotten  race,  a  buried  nation. 

"  Even  so  that  unutterably  grand  countenance  of  the 
Sphinx  looks  over  the  plain  of  the  Nile,  over  the  sandy 
hills  of  the  Necropolis,  over  the  heaps  of  earth  and  wav- 
ing groves  of  palm  that  cover  and  hide  every  vestige  of 
the  once  great  Memphis.  But  there  is  this  difference, 
that  the  countenance  of  this  Man  of  the  Mountain  is  only 
stern  and  sad,  like — very  like  the  faces  of  the  Assyrian 
kings  on  the  Nineveh  marbles,  or  that  face  of  Rehoboam, 
the  son  of  Solomon,  on  the  temple  wall  at  Karnak.  There 
is  expectation,  but  not  hope  in  this  countenance.  The 
face  of  the  Sphinx,  with  all  its  sadness,  wears  a  smile. 


THE    PROFILE.  239 

Sitting  here  to-night,  I  recall  that  face  as  you  and  I  have 
seen  it  so  often  repeated  on  images  throughout  Egypt, 
always  the  same  smiling  countenance  of  majesty,  unlike 
every  other  face  in  Egyptian  sculpture.  I  can  imagine 
to-night  the  starlight  vanishing  and  the  dawn  breaking  on 
that  cold  brow  (for  it  is  not  yet  midnight  here,  but  the 
day  is  rising  in  Egypt),  and  I  can  see  the  smile  with  which 
the  old  image  welcomes  again,  as  so  often,  the  calm  clear 
dawn.  That  smile,  the  mystery  of  the  Sphinx,  I  think  we 
can  understand.  For  in  Egypt  there  shall  be,  and  that 
before  long,  a  new  race  and  a  new  throne,  and  the  tem- 
ples that  for  two  thousand  years  have  been  waiting  for 
worshipers  shall  be  filled,  and  the  dream  of  the  old  Egyp- 
tian, who  built  them  for  these  later  years  as  well  as  his 
own  times,  will  be  almost  realized.  There  is  hope  in  the 
smile  of  the  Sphinx.  But  yonder  old  man  of  rock  looks 
over  hills  from  which  a  race  has  vanished  never  to  re- 
turn. Not  alone  the  race  that  I  have  imagined  in  the  re- 
mote ages,  but  a  later,  a  noble  race,  who  will  be  forgotten 
like  that  other;  who  are  already  so  forgotten  that  men 
can  not  name  them  in  their  own  tongue,  but  speak  of  them 
as  a  people  nameless  and  unknown.  For  them  there  is 
no  hope  ;  and  the  old  watcher  for  morning  on  the  Fran- 
conia  hills  waits  for  no  morning  light  on  the  people  that 
have  looked  lovingly  up  to  him  for  a  thousand  years.  His 
face  may  well  be  sad  forever." 

"  Fancies,  John,  but  more  satisfying  sometimes  than  re- 
alities. Nevertheless  I  think  you  wrong  the  old  man's 
expression.  You  are  correct  in  this  that  his  countenance 
indicates  expectation,  and  I  think  it  has  also  some  very 
little  but  far-off  hope  united  with  that  look  of  waiting; 
and  this  half  hopeful  half  despairing  look  of  waiting  is  what 
gives  him  to  my  eye  his  chief  grandeur.  The  things  that 


240  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

have  gone  by  are  nothing.  He  looks  to  the  rising  sun, 
but  stands  immovable  with  back  to  his  setting.  He  looks 
always  since  God  made  him — before  he  made  man  in  sim- 
ilar image — he  looks  forever  to  the  coming  day,  to  the 
coming  generations,  to  the  coming  ages,  and  as  the  even- 
ing purple  covers  the  slopes  of  Lafayette,  he  seems  to 
look  over  the  hills  for  some  long-delayed  yet  ever  waited- 
for  appearance.  And  I  never  understood  that  look  till  I 
came  up  here  once  in  May  before  the  snows  were  gone, 
and  then  it  seemed  to  me  in  the  red  evening  that  there 
was  a  veritable  glory  and  terror  in  the  old  man's  face — 
and  I  will  tell  you  why  it  might  be  so,  and  why  the  sunset 
light  might  well  be  awe-full.  When  the  advancing  spring 
melts  the  snow  from  the  sides  of  Mount  Lafayette,  it  al- 
ways leaves  a  wonderful  sign  on  the  western  slope  of  the 
great  hill,  which  you  can  not  see  from  the  Profile  House  or 
from  the  ravine,  but  which  if  you  go  out  of  the  mountains 
to\vard  Franconia  you  will  see — or  better  still  if  you  climb 
to  the  rocky  forehead  of  the  Old  Man,  you  will  see  as  his 
stony  eyes  have  seen  it  in  the  alternation  of  the  seasons 
since  the  hills  were  reared  by  the  word  of  the  Almighty. 
There  every  day  in  the  spring  a  great  white  cross,  a  thou- 
sand feet  in  height,  five  hundred  feet  from  arm  to  arm, 
stands  on  the  mountain-side,  caused  by  the  snow  which 
lies  in  deep  masses  in  three  ravines.  And  when  the  sun 
goes  down,  the  Old  Man  sees  the  cross  grow  red  and 
purple  in  the  strange  weird  light,  and  high  over  it  the 
summit  of  the  hill  gleams  like  a  flaming  star  as  the  night 
hides  the  splendor  of  the  ruby  sign.  And  the  old  watcher, 
taking  no  note  of  the  days  and  years  and  ages  that  have 
gone  down  in  the  West  behind  him,  looks  every  spring  to 
the  sign  of  his  coming  who  shall  bring  back  with  him  all 
that  was  worthy  in  the  departed  cycles,  and  every  summer 


FISHING    IN    HOLY    LAND.  24! 

and  winter  keeps  his  eastward  gaze  unchanged  toward 
that  far-off  light  that  he  once  saw  over  the  Mountain  of 
the  Ascension." 

"  But  here  comes  the  Doctor  again,  just  in  time  to  in- 
terrupt our  analysis  of  the  Old  Man's  countenance.  What 
now,  Doctor  ?" 

"  What  has  become  of  that  monster  of  a  trout  that  was 
in  the  aquarium  here  for  two  or  three  years  ?" 

"  He  died  last  fall,  of  old  age  I  fancy.  Wasn't  he  a 
beauty  ?" 

"  Where  was  he  taken  ?" 

"  In  Profile  Lake.  He  weighed  a  little  short  of  three 
pounds.  The  largest  trout  ever  taken  out  of  the  lake. 
It  was  very  odd.  I  was  throwing  a  fly  one  evening,  and 
had  a  dozen  fine  fish,  when,  just  after  dark,  while  I  could 
scarcely  see  my  fly  on  the  water,  I  hooked  a  fine  fish,  and 
killed  him  in  ten  minutes.  He  was  the  largest  fish  that 
had  been  taken  in  the  lake  that  year.  He  weighed  a 
trifle  over  one  pound  and  a  half.  Of  course  there  was 
great  excitement  in  the  house  in  the  evening,  but  the  next 

morning  imagine  our  astonishment  when  C took  that 

noble  fellow." 

"  What  a  persevering  chap  you  are  at  the  fish,"  said 
John.  "  Do  you  remember  the  mill  of  E'ma-al-a-ha  ?" 

"  Never  shall  forget  it.  It  has  been  a  source  of  more 
serious  consideration  to  my  mind  than  any  other  spot  of 
which  at  this  moment  I  have  any  recollection.  It  bothers 
me.  It  perplexes  me  still.  It  keeps  me  awake  o'nights." 

"  What's  that,  John  ?" 

"  When  the  Effendi  and  I  were  in  Northern  Palestine, 
it  chanced  that  we  pitched  our  tents  one  evening  on  the 
bank  of  a  large  spring,  some  hundred  feet  across,  nearly 
round,  deep,  and  clear  as  crystal.  It  poured  out  a  strong 

Q 


242  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

stream  which  turned  a  rude  wheel  of  the  mill  of  E'ma-al- 
a-ha.  The  spring  was  alive  with  fish.  He  was  a  perse- 
vering angler  then,  as  now.  He  had  taken  some  fish  in 
the  Sea  of  Galilee,  descendants  of  the  sacred  fish  of  an- 
cient times ;  he  had  whipped  the  Jordan  with  all  sorts  of 
flies  ;  he  had,  in  fact,  fished  all  the  waters  of  Israel ;  and 
this  spring,  pouring  its  water  into  the  Lake  Merom,  on 
the  Upper  Jordan,  was  certainly  as  fine-looking  a  place 
to  fish  as  we  had  seen.  We  could  see  hundreds  of  large 
fellows  sailing  around  in  the  clear  water,  but  we  took  no 
fish  there — not  a  fish,  not  the  fin  of  a  fish." 

John  told  the  simple  truth. 

It  was  more  unintelligible  to  me  than  the  hieroglyphics 
of  Egypt  were  to  Champollion.  It  bothered  me  more  than 
a  cuneiform  inscription.  They  were  large  fish  ;  they  were 
plenty ;  they  were  active.  I  had  good  tackle,  enough  of 
it.  My  old  rod  had  done  service  in  its  day ;  but  it  was 
of  no  use  there.  I  tried  every  fly  in  the  book.  They  did 
not  even  look  at  the  cheats.  I  tried  every  bait  imagin- 
able. They  never  approached  it.  I  used  all  the  insects 
and  animals  I  could  catch  near  the  spring ;  all  the  grubs 
and  worms  that  live  in  the  soil  of  the  Jordan  valley.  I 
even  tried  raw  meat  and  flour  paste.  I  worked  at  the 
spring  till  long  after  dark,  and  began  again  at  daylight  in 
the  morning :  but  it  was  of  no  use.  Since  then  Dr. 
Thompson,  of  Sidon,  the  good  and  distinguished  mission- 
ary, has  told  me  that  those  fish  are  celebrated,  and  that 
no  one  has  ever  succeeded  in  taking  one  of  them.  But  a 
few  days'  study  and  attention  would  do  the  work.  It  is 
only  necessary  to  learn  the  habits  of  fish  to  be  able  to 
catch  them. 

"  Have  you  killed  any  trout  in  Echo  Lake  this  year  ?" 
said  the  Doctor. 


ECHO    LAKE.  243 

"  Trout  in  Echo  Lake  !"  exclaimed  Steenburger.  "  I 
thought  there  were  none  there — only  pickerel." 

"  Ah  !  that's  a  discovery  since  you  were  last  here,  John. 
I'll  tell  you  about  it." 

So  I  told  the  story  of  finding  trout  in  Echo  Lake. 

We  had  taken  fewer  trout  than  usual  in  Profile  Lake 
during  the  summer  of  1867,  although  the  previous  year 
had  been  one  of  great  abundance.  We  estimated  that 
more  than  three  thousand  trout  had  been  taken  out  of 
the  lake  each  season  for  several  summers  in  succession, 
and  there  had  hitherto  been  no  visible  diminution  of  the 
supply.  But  it  now  became  hard  work  to  cast  and  get 
nothing.  During  the  whole  season  only  one  trout  weighing 
a  pound  had  been  taken  in  Profile  Lake,  and  a  few  hun- 
dred smaller  fish.  The  mountain  streams,  however,  were 
more  fully  stocked  than  usual  with  small  fish,  which  are 
so  delicious  for  the  table.  Dupont  and  myself  had  done 
hard  yet  pleasant  work  in  whipping  those  wild  brooks, 
seldom  visited  by  man's  footsteps,  and  we  took  often  three 
and  four  hundred  fish  in  a  day.  In  fact,  after  a  few  days, 
we  counted  them  only  by  the  basketfuls.  The  Pemige- 
wasset  seemed  inexhaustible.  We  fished  it  in  sections. 
Those  who  know  the  localities  will  understand  me  when 
I  say  that  one  day  we  fished  the  stream  from  the  Basin  to 
the  Pool,  through  the  wild  ravine  which  plunges  down  be- 
low the  Plymouth  Road.  Another  day  we  fished  from 
Walker's  Cascade  brook  to  the  Basin.  Yet  another  day 
from  the  old  mill  below  the  lake  to  the  Walker's  Cascade 
brook.  Besides  this  we  fished  the  Cascade  brook  (not 
XValker's)  from  source  to  mouth  in  sections.  The  result 
was  generally  about  the  same  each  day,  and  we  brought 
home  enormous  quantities  of  small  trout,  with  an  occa- 
sional half  or  three-quarter  pound  fish. 


244  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

It  had  been  for  many  years  regarded  as  a  settled  fact 
that  there  were  no  trout  in  Echo  Lake.  Some  one  put 
pickerel  in  there  years  ago,  and  they  have  maintained 
possession.  In  1859,  a  friend  and  myself  devoted  a  day 
to  taking  fifty  trout  in  Profile  Lake  and  transferring  them 
to  Echo  Lake,  with  the  hope  that  a  few  of  them  might 
survive  the  attacks  of  the  enemy,  and  eventually  establish 
a  colony  there.  But  we  never  heard  from  them,  and  had 
never  seen  a  trout  rise  on  the  surface  of  Echo  Lake. 

One  evening  toward  the  close  of  the  season  I  per- 
suaded Dupont  and  C to  go  with  me  to  Echo  Lake. 

"  It's  a  great  deal  better  to  throw  a  fly  where  you  know 
there  are  no  trout,  and  so  give  patience  a  perfect  trial,"  I 
said.  And  we  went  floating  around  the  beautiful  lake, 

C standing  in  the  boat  with  my  rod,  and  casting  now 

and  then  inshore  for  a  pickerel.  Pickerel  will  take  a  fly 
with  a  rush,  but  they  are  not  game  after  being  struck. 
They  come  in  like  dead  fish.  It  was  a  glorious  afternoon, 
and  we  were  enjoying  the  strong  and  various  lights  of  the 
westering  sun  on  the  Eagle  Cliffs  and  the  slopes  of  Lafay- 
ette. There  is  in  Echo  Lake  a  certain  spot  where  springs 
gush  up  from  the  bottom  in  about  eight  feet  of  water,  sur- 
rounded by  lily  pads.  We  were  gliding  over  this  spot, 

when  C handed  me  my  rod,  with  which  he  had  been 

casting,  and  said, "  Take  the  rod  while  I  look  at  this  sun- 
set." I  took  the  rod  and  carelessly  threw  over  the  spring- 
hole.  As  I  drew  across  the  still,  black  water,  a  sharp 
strike  and  a  heavy  plunge  startled  me  from  the  seat  where 
I  had  been  holding  the  oars.  A  large  fish  went  down 
with  the  line,  and  in  an  instant  I  found  I  must  give  him 
the  reel.  "  The  first  pickerel  I  ever  saw  in  Echo  Lake  to 
which  I  had  to  give  the  reel,"  I  exclaimed  as  he  rushed 
off.  The  next  moment,  as  I  checked  him,  and  he  swung 


ECHO    LAKE.  245 

around  on  a  long  curve,  he  went  into  the  air  seventy-five 
feet  off,  and  we  shouted  together,  "It  is  a  trout !"  He  was 
strong  and  lively.  The  reel  sounded  like  a  small  watch- 
man's rattle.  But  he  was  engaged  for  the  Profile  House, 
and  the  only  question  was,  "  Can  we  secure  him  alive  for 
the  great  tank  ?"  It  took  full  ten  minutes  to  tire  him  out, 
without  attempting  to  kill  him,  and  with  much  caution  to 
do  him  as  little  injury  as  possible.  We  shouted  to  Frank 
at  the  boat-house  to  bring  us  another  boat,  and  we  filled 
it  half  full  of  water.  By  that  time  the  trout  was  wearied 
out,  and  came  tamely  up  to  the  side  of  the  boat.  We  had 
no  landing-net,  for  we  had  no  thought  of  taking  a  large 
trout.  So  it  was  necessary  to  do  that  by  no  means  easy 
thing,  land  him  with  the  hand  without  hurting  his  gills.  I 
did  this  at  length,  and  the  beautiful  animal  swam  about 
the  half-filled  boat,  not  hurt,  though  sadly  astonished. 
We  sent  up  to  the  house  for  a  tub,  and  in  another  half 
hour  the  old*  Profile  Lake  trout  in  the  tank  had  a  com- 
panion who  weighed  exactly  three  pounds  and  a  quarter. 

In  some  other  waters  this  would  be  esteemed  of  no 
great  account ;  but  a  three-pound  trout  at  the  Profile 
House,  and  that  out  of  Echo  Lake,  was  certainly  a  sub- 
ject of  astonishment.  This  was  on  a  Thursday  evening, 

and  the  next  morning,  before  I  was  awake,  C was 

off  for  home  by  one  of  the  early  stages. 

The  afternoon  of  Friday  was  clear  but  windy.  There 
was  more  than  a  ripple — in  fact  a  heavy  sea — on  Echo 
Lake.  It  was  difficult  to  make  an  anchor  hold.  More 
than  that,  it  was  hard  to  rig  an  anchor,  for  they  kept  no 
ropes  at  Echo  Lake.  I  cut  a  long  birch  pole,  and  with  a 
short  piece  of  cord  fastened  a  large  stone  to  one  end, 
and  made  the  other  end  fast  to  the  oar-lock.  With  this  I 
held  on  tolerably  well ;  and  now,  having  a  light  rod,  I 


246  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

was  able  to  reach  any  point  within  a  hundred  feet  to  lee 
ward  with  the  tail  fly. 

I  pause  a  moment  to  describe  the  rod  which  I  was 
using. 

The  weight,  length,  and  material  which  are  best  suited 
to  a  rod  will  depend  wholly  on  the  circumstances  under 
which  it  is  to  be  used.  I  find  on  counting  that  I  am 
possessed  of  eleven  rods,  and  I  have  used  every  one  of 
them  more  or  less.  Dismissing  all  but  such  as  are  suited 
to  trout-fishing,  I  find  some  which  I  use  more  than  oth- 
ers. One  is  a  strong  rod,  thirteen  feet  in  length,  weighing 
ten  ounces  without  the  reel.  I  use  this  rod  for  black 
bass  and  for  trout  when  fish  are  large  and  plenty,  and  I 
desire  to  kill  as  many  as  possible  within  a  limited  time. 
A  heavy  rod  properly  handled  will  kill  a  large  trout 
quicker  than  a  light  one,  but  carelessly  handled  is  much 
more  likely  to  lose  the  fish.  The  next  two  rods  are  fac- 
similes one  of  the  other — a  light  seven-ounce  rod,  twelve 
feet  long,  made  with  the  utmost  care  by  an  experienced 
fisherman,  each  joint  thoroughly  tried,  and  the  whole  rod 
subjected  to  every  proper  test  before  it  was  regarded  as 
complete.  The  tip  bends  to  the  butt,  and  flies  back  to  a 
straight  line.  With  one  of  these  light  rods  I  have  during 
five  years'  use  killed  many  hundred  pounds  of  fish  in 
Europe,  Asia,  Africa,  and  America;  and  I  would  not  part 
with  either  of  them  to-day  for  a  hundred  times  its  cost. 
They  were  made  by  Mr.  Thaddeus  Norris,  of  Philadel- 
phia, an  accomplished  angler,  and  author  of  one  of  the 
best  fishing-books  we  have.  These  two  rods  are  for  all 
kinds  of  fly-fishing,  on  lake,  river,  or  brook.  I  have  one 
Norris  rod  lighter  still  for  occasional  use. 

The  English  fishermen  do  not,  as  a  general  rule,  like 
our  American  light  rods,  and  it  is  true  that  on  their  own 


FLY    RODS.  247 

waters  they  kill  more  fish  with  their  heavier  tackle  than 
an  American  working  with  them  can  kill  with  his  light 
rod.  But  the  converse  is  also  true,  that  the  American  on 
our  own  waters  with  light  tackle  will  kill  more  than  the 
Englishman  with  heavy  rod.  I  imagine  the  reason  to  be 
that  the  habits  of  the  fish  and  their  manner  of  taking  the 
fly  are  different,  and  the  Englishman  in  his  own  waters 
strikes  his  fish  more  securely  with  a  heavy  rod.  Pos- 
sibly, practice  on  the  water  would  bring  the  American's 
basket  up  to  an  equality.  In  my  limited  experience  with 
trout  in  England  I  have  found  difficulty  in  striking  sue- . 
cessfully  with  my  light  rod,  because,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
of  the  very  gentle  manner  the  fish  had  of  rising  to  the  fly. 
Yet  at  home  there  is  no  difficulty  in  striking  the  most 
delicate  rise. 

But  when  once  you  have  hooked  your  fish  the  light  rod 
is  vastly  to  be  preferred,  after  becoming  accustomed  to 
handle  it,  whatever  and  wherever  be  the  water.  For  the 
principle  of  the  rod  is  in  reality  only  this,  that  it  is  the 
home  end  of  the  line,  stiffened  and  made  springy,  so  that 
you  can  guide  and  manage  it — cast  and  draw  it,  keep  a 
gentle  pressure  with  it  on  the  hook  so  that  the  fish  shall 
not  rid  himself  of  it,  and  finally  lift  him  to  the  landing- 
net.  Let  the  young  angler  always  remember  that  his  rod 
is  only  a  part  of  the  line.  The  control  which  a  properly 
constructed  rod  gives  to  the  angler  over  his  line  and  over 
a  large  fish  on  it  is  wonderful.  For  ordinary  lake-fish- 
ing, American  anglers  are  accustomed  to  cast  from  thirty 
to  sixty  feet  of  line  from  the  end  of  the  rod.  I  have  seen 
an  angler,  under  favorable  circumstances,  cast  from  a  sev- 
en-ounce Norris  rod  a  straight  cast  of  ninety-four  feet 
from  the  end  of  the  rod,  or,  including  the  rod,  a  hundred 
and  five  feet  of  line  from  the  hand,  and  repeat  the  cast 


248  I    GO    A-  FISHING. 

again  and  again  without  varying  the  drop  of  the  tail  fly 
more  than  three  feet.  This  is  a  tremendous  cast,  and 
few  will  be  able  to  get  out  much  over  seventy  feet. 

Another  of  my  rods  is  twelve  feet  long,  and  weighs 
nine  ounces,  the  additional  weight  being  chiefly  in  the 
second  joint  and  tip.  This  makes  a  stiffer  rod,  and  suit- 
able for  river  and  brook  fishing,  where  the  cover  forbids 
long  casting,  and  where  a  short  line  is  often  to  be  guided 
on  running  water  among  overhanging  bushes. 

The  weight  of  the  line  will  always  depend  on  the  weight 
of  the  rod.  I  prefer  the  ordinary  braided-silk  line  to  any 
other.  The  prepared  lines  are  not  objectionable  until 
they  are  worn,  when  they  give  trouble.  But  all  anglers 
have  their  fancies,  as  I  mine,  and  the  best  rule  for  every 
one  is  to  use  the  rod  and  line  which  best  suits  him.  He 
is  an  ill-judging  angler  who  allows  himself  to  be  made 
uncomfortable  for  the  sake  of  following  the  notions  of 
dilettant  anglers.  I  have  seen  many  times  the  nonsense 
of  following  rules.  One  evening,  when  the  sun  was  going 
down  on  Follansbee  Pond  in  a  tempest,  and  large  trout 
were  rising  as  fast  as  I  could  throw  two  scarlet  ibis  flies, 
a  strong  fellow  struck  the  bobber  and  carried  away  the 
leader,  and  I  had  not  a  red  fly  left  in  my  book.  I  made 
up  another  leader  with  dark  and  light  flies,  but  nothing 
rose.  Then  I  saw  that  my  old  guide  Steve  Turner  had 
on  a  red  flannel  shirt,  and  I  shouted  to  him,  for  he  was 
in  another  boat,  for  a  piece  of  it.  He  whipped  out  his 
knife  and  cut  off  a  piece  and  brought  it  to  me;  and  with 
a  rag  of  red  flannel  on  each  fly  I  took  large  trout  at  ev- 
ery cast,  till  the  deep  darkness  and  heavy  rain  drove  me 
ashore.  That  was  more  than  fifteen  years  ago,  and 
Steve's  red  shirt  has  served  my  turn  many  a  day  since, 
and  a  fragment  of  it  lies  in  an  old  flv-book  to  this  clav. 


ECHO    LAKE.  249 

I  have  often  used  a  white  rag  in  the  evening  instead  of  a 
white  moth.  Better  still  sometimes  I  have  found  a  strip 
of  the  white  skin  from  a  shiner's  belly. 

And  now  by  your  leave  we  will  return  to  Echo  Lake, 
where  I  stood  with  a  light  Norris  rod  in  hand  and  two 
flies  on  my  leader.  The  wind  was  heavy,  and  the  waves 
swashed  among  the  lily  pads.  A  half-hour's  casting 
brought  nothing  to  the  surface.  It  was  nearly  dark.  No 
fly  seemed  worth  any  thing.  Black,  brown,  red,  gray, 
coachman,  dun,  cinnamon,  and  even  the  white  moth,  so 
successful  at  evening  on  Profile  Lake,  all  failed.  Could 
it  be  that  I  had  taken  the  solitary  trout  of  Echo  Lake,  last 
of  his  race  ?  At  length  I  selected  a  large  fly,  with  a  bril- 
liant scarlet  body  and  two  stiff  white  wings  of  the  ptarmi- 
gan feather.  One  long  cast,  and  as  this  strange  fly,  un- 
like any  thing  on  earth  or  water,  sprang  from  one  wave- 
top  to  another,  there  was  a  sharp  rush,  up  into  the  air 
went  a  noble  fish,  and  turning  over  struck  down  on  the 
fly,  and  the  whirr  of  the  reel  made  its  music  in  an  instant. 
He  was  fast  and  away.  A  shout  warned  Frank  to  come 
out  with  his  boat,  and  in  a  few  moments  a  gentleman  who 
was  also  near  me,  and  had  been  casting  over  the  same 
spot  a  few  moments  before,  pulled  toward  me  and  lay  off 
to  see  the  contest.  Small  as  a  trout  is,  this  contest  be- 
tween him  and  a  man  is  by  no  means  unequal ;  and  with 
a  strong,  lively  fish,  the  chances  are  against  the  human 
in  such  a  case  as  this.  For  the  wind  was  heavy  and  the 
lily  stems  were  strong  and  abundant.  The  fish  made  a 
rush  for  the  deep  water,  which  sounds  twenty-seven  feet 
outside  the  lily  pads.  He  had  struck  on  fifty  feet  of  line, 
and  had  more  than  eighty  feet  out  when  the  lily  stems 
brought  him  up  and  made  it  strongly  probable  that  he 
would  break  away  from  the  tackle.  For  let  the  uniniti- 


250  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

ated  be  informed  that  in  trout-fishing  very  light  tackle  is 
used,  and  if  a  strong  fish  secures  a  chance  for  a  steady 
pull  or  jerk  against  a  firm  resistance,  he  will  probably 
break  away.  The  one  great  law  of  all  fishing  with  a  fly- 
rod  is  this :  "  Never  point  the  rod  toward  the  fish,  but 
keep  it  always  up,  so  that  he  pulls  on  the  spring  of  the 
rod."  Therein  lies  the  grand  merit  of  the  Norris  rod.  Its 
spring  is  steady,  even,  long,  and  easy.  After  a  few  mo- 
ments the  fish  drew  the  line  through  the  lily  stems  and 
went  away  for  deep  water.  As  the  darkness  settled  down 
the  wind  fell.  This  fish  was  one  of  the  strongest  trout  I 
had  ever  landed.  Although  he  weighed  only  a  trifle  over 
two  pounds,  he  worked  as  bravely  as  any  five-pound  fish 
that  I  ever  saw.  Five,  six,  seven  times  he  went  out  of 
water  on  the  swing  of  the  line.  Trout  never,  in  my  ex- 
perience, throw  themselves  out  of  water.  Black  bass  do 
it  deliberately  and  ferociously.  But  trout  seek  usually  to 
go  down.  When  they  are  straining  on  the  line  and  swim- 
ming in  the  arc  of  a  circle,  if  they  happen  to  start  on  a 
rush  with  the  head  up,  or  only  parallel  to  the  top  of  the 
water,  the  chances  are  that  the  spring  of  the  rod  will  cant 
the  head  of  the  fish  toward  the  surface,  and  out  he  goes 
in  spite  of  himself.  It  sometimes  happens,  as  in  this  case, 
that  a  strong  fish,  to  whom  you  have  given  the  butt  (that 
is,  the  utmost  force  of  spring  which  the  rod  has,  including 
the  butt  as  well  as  the  rest  of  the  rod),  will  thus  go  out  of 
water  several  times  before  he  is  conquered.  I  wanted 
this  fish  alive,  but  it  was  growing  dark  and  I  was  in  a 
hurry.  It  was  full  ten  minutes  before  I  had  him  along- 
side for  the  first  time.  He  was  apparently  overcome.  The 
beautiful  rod  was  bending  in  a  graceful  curve,  almost  a 
circle,  when  down  he  dashed,  strong  as  ever,  the  tip  of 
the  rod  brushing  the  fingers  that  held  the  butt,  and  again 


ECHO    LAKE.  251 

he  was  off  with  fifty  feet  of  line.  It  was  his  last  flurry, 
and  now  he  came  alongside  and  lay  quiet,  sinking  into 
the  net  as  it  glided  under  him  and  lifted  him  gently 
into  Frank's  boat,  which  was  ready  for  him.  He  was 
soon  in  the  great  tank  in  the  house,  and  the  three  fish 
were  worth  looking  at.  This  was  on  Friday  evening. 
Saturday  was  stormy  and  wild.  Sunday  was  one  of  those 
days  of  indescribable  beauty  which  make  the  Profile 
House  to  seem  sometimes  in  the  land  of  Beulah.  Mon- 
day was  the  last  day  of  my  stay  that  season  at  the  Profile 
House,  for  we  were  to  go  northward  in  New  Hampshire 
to  fish  the  waters  west  and  east  of  Dixville  Notch,  and 
had  planned  to  leave  on  Tuesday  morning  for  the  ren- 
dezvous at  Littleton.  It  seemed  hardly  worth  while  to 
expect  any  more  such  sport  on  Echo  Lake,  but  as  I  rowed 
around  the  lake  in  the  morning  in  a  clear  soft  sunshine, 
and  resting  on  the  oars  passed  gently  over  the  spring- 
hole,  I  looked  down,  and  in  six  feet  of  water  saw  one  soli- 
tary trout,  apparently  looking  around  for  his  lost  com- 
panions. So  toward  sunset  Dupont  and  myself  went 
clown,  and  after  casting  for  an  hour  with  all  kinds  of  flies, 
but  raising  nothing,  I  put  on  the  same  queer  fly  with  the 
scarlet  body  and  white  wings,  and  at  the  first  cast  up 
came  the  last  of  his  race,  so  far  as  I  knew,  in  Echo  Lake, 
and  I  landed  him  after  ten  minutes  of  sharp  struggling. 
He  weighed  a  short  two  pounds.  The  same  care  was 
taken  with  him,  and  he  reached  the  tank  in  the  Profile 
House  in  fine  condition.  Four  more  beautiful  trout  were 
never  seen  together  in  a  glass  aquarium  than  these  which 
attracted  the  admiration  of  the  crowd  of  visitors  at  the 
Profile  at  the  close  of  the  season. 

This   ended   the   summer's   fishing  in   the   Franconia 
Notch,  and  the  next  day  we  started  for  the  north. 


252  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

When  I  reached  the  Profile  House  the  next  year,  I  was 
curious  to  know  whether  there  were  any  more  of  the  same 
sort  offish  in  Echo  Lake,  and  went  there  several  evenings 
in  succession,  but  got  nothing.  I  never  knew  another 
trout  to  rise  on  Echo  Lake  in  the  evening.  But  one 
morning,  bright  and  sunshiny,  between  eleven  and  one 
o'clock,  I  saw  trout  rising  near  the  spring-hole  among 
the  lily  pads,  and  taking  the  hint  I  sent  for  my  rod,  and 
killed  that  day  seven  fish  weighing  severally  from  one 
pound  and  three  quarters  to  two  and  three  quarters.  The 
next  day,  at  the  same  hour  and  with  the  same  bright  sun- 
shine, I  killed  one  weighing  over  three  pounds  and  two 
that  weighed  nearly  two  pounds  each.  Since  that  time  I 
have  killed  in  Echo  Lake  over  thirty  fish,  none  of  which 
weighed  less  than  a  pound.  But  there  are  no  small  fish 
in  the  lake,  and  pickerel  abound,  so  that  no  increase  of 
trout  can  be  hoped  for.  The  lake  has  now  been  ju- 
diciously stocked  with  black  bass,  and  after  a  few  years 
we  hope  they  will  enjoy  undisputed  possession. 


XIII. 

THREE  BOTTLES  OF  CLARET. 

IT  had  been  a  delicious  afternoon  on  Profile  Lake;  one 
of  those  days  when  the  very  glory  of  the  other  country 
seems  to  come  down  among  our  mountains.  The  little 
lake  had  presented,  as  usual  on  such  evenings,  a  gay  and 
brilliant  scene.  It  was  a  lake  of  Paradise.  A  dozen  boats 
were  out  with  parties  of  ladies  or  with  anglers,  some  of 
the  latter  fishing  with  floats  and  worms,  some  casting  flies, 
and  now  and  then  getting  up  fair  trout.  I  had  passed 
the  time  after  a  fashion  that  is  somewhat  lazy  and  luxu- 
rious, lying  at  full  length  in  the  bottom  of  my  boat,  drift- 
ing idly  around  while  I  read  an  old  book,  occasionally 
sinking  into  a  doze  and  dreaming.  As  evening  came 
down  the  various  parties  left  the  lake,  and  at  last  in  the 
twilight  Dupont  came  up  in  his  boat  alongside  of  mine, 
and  we  found  ourselves,  as  often  before,  alone  on  the 
lake. 

Among  all  my  memories  of  trout-fishing  there  are  none 
more  pleasant  than  the  memories  of  those  evenings  on 
Profile  Lake,  when  my  friend  and  I,  with  our  boats  at 
anchor  a  few  rods  apart,  have  cast  our  flies  long  after  the 
darkness  prevented  our  seeing  their  fall,  and  whether  we 
got  rises  or  not  were  content  to  see  the  stars  come  over 
the  mountains,  or  the  moonlight  descend  into  the  ravine 
and  silver  the  surface  of  the  lake. 


254  l    GO    A-FISHING. 

This  evening  was  profoundly  still ;  not  a  breath  of  air 
disturbed  the  leaf  of  a  tree.  One  could  hardly  hope  to 
find  a  Profile  Lake  trout  so  foolish  as  to  take  a  fly  on 
such  a  glassy  surface.  I  was  lazy  and  indolent,  but  Du- 
pont  was  making  long  and  steady  casts,  always  graceful, 
and  as  sure  as  graceful.  I  paused  and  watched  him.  I 
could  just  see  in  the  twilight  the  fall  of  his  tail  fly,  some 
fifty  feet  away  from  his  hand,  as  it  touched  the  water 
close  inshore  under  a  great  rock,  and  I  felt  in  my  own 
arm  the  thrill  which  was  in  his  as  I  saw  the  slightest  com- 
motion on  the  surface,  and  knew  that  a  good  fish  had  risen 
and  "sucked  in"  the  fly  without  striking  it.  It  was  a 
very  pretty  contest  then,  with  his  light  Norris  rod  and  a 
fish  that  would  weigh  over  a  pound.  The  silence  was 
profound.  No  sound  on  water  or  land  or  in  the  air.  Few 
night  birds  are  heard  in  our  forests  thereabouts,  and  in 
the  cool  evenings  the  insects  are  still.  So  I  looked  on 
while  he  patiently  wearied  and  landed  his  fish — a  good 
size  for  this  over-fished  lake,  where  the  trout  have  little 
chance  to  grow  large.  It  is  in  some  respects  the  most 
wonderful  trout  pond  I  have  ever  known.  In  the  rush 
of  travel  hundreds  of  men  and  boys,  and  many  ladies,  take 
trout  here  every  summer.  Few  days  in  July  and  August 
see  less  than  ten  or  fifteen  rods  on  the  lake.  We  have 
estimated  an  annual  catch  of  at  least  three  thousand  trout 
in  this  small  pond,  and  the  supply  seems  equally  great 
each  year.  This  is  largely  due  to  the  protection  of  the 
smaller  pond  above  the  lake,  which  is  the  breeding-place, 
and  where  no  fishing  is  permitted. 

I  had  taken  nothing.  In  fact,  I  had  not  made  a  dozen 
casts.  But  now  I  began  to  work,  laying  the  flies  away  in 
the  shoal  water  near  the  inlet.  It  is  the  advantage  of 
fly-fishing  that  one  can  cover  so  large  a  space  of  water 


BEFORE    DAYLIGHT.  255 

without  moving  position.  It  is  an  easy  matter  in  still 
weather  to  whip  every  inch  of  a  circle  of  a  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  diameter. 

The  fisherman  who  tries  the  water  of  a  new  lake,  un- 
certain whether  there  be  any  trout  in  it,  should,  if  possible, 
cast  at  evening  near  an  inlet.  He  will  often  find  the 
largest  trout  in  water  not  over  six  inches  deep.  It  is 
probable  that  at  this  hour  of  the  day  the  large  trout  are 
on  the  feed,  and  seek  near  the  inlet  the  smaller  fish  as 
well  as  insects.  I  remember  an  evening  in  Northern  New 
Hampshire,  when  Dupont  and  myself  took  twenty-seven 
trout  between  sunset  and  an  hour  after  dark,  every  one 
of  which  weighed  over  two  pounds,  and  every  one  took 
the  fly  in  water  about  ten  inches  deep.  There  was  a 
brilliant  full  moon  that  night,  and  they  rose  later  than 
usual.  An  old  Adirondack  guide  has  frequently  told  me 
that  in  those  waters  large  trout  rise  freely  to  the  fly  be- 
tween one  and  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  have 
never  been  able  to  verify  his  saying,  for  I  have  never  loved 
fishing  well  enough  to  toil  all  night  at  it  as  did  the  apos- 
tles, nor  to  get  out  of  bed  very  long  before  day.  I  have, 
however,  not  infrequently  cast  for  a  half-hour  before  the 
dawn  on  water  where  trout  were  abundant,  and  I  never 
got  a  rise  until  day  was  fairly  shining.  But  I  am  not 
willing  to  place  my  limited  experience  against  the  asser- 
tion of  the  guide,  backed  as  it  was  by  the  statement  of 
sportsmen  that  they  had  known  him  to  go  out  of  camp  at 
midnight  and  return  before  daylight  with  a  load  of  trout. 
In  some  of  the  streams  of  the  Pacific  coast  I  have  been 
told  trout  are  taken  with  bait  at  all  hours  of  the  night  in 
streams  where  one  is  seldom  taken  in  daylight.  All  this 
goes  to  the  question  whether  fish  sleep,  a  question  not  yet 
satisfactorily  answered. 


256  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

I  could  not  provoke  a  rise,  and  it  grew  dark  apace.  I 
threw  my  line  back  for  a  long  cast.  It  was  very  near  be- 
ing a  case  of  broken  rod,  for  there  was  a  sharp  jerk  as 
the  flies  went  through  the  air,  the  line  came  in  all  in  a 
heap,  and  something  fell  into  the  water  close  to  the  boat. 
I  picked  up  the  slack  and  hauled  in — a  bat.  The  wretch 
had  taken  a  small  black  gnat,  and  the  hook  was  in  his 
throat.  So  much  for  casting  a  fly  in  the  dark.  It  was 
the  last  cast  I  made  that  evening.  We  went  ashore  and 
strolled  up  the  dark  road  to  the  hotel. 

The  windows  blazed  their  light  into  the  gloom  of  the 
Notch,  making  a  strange  contrast  to  the  darkness  of  the 
forest  road  from  which  we  emerged.  The  sound  of  the 
music  in  the  drawing-room  drove  all  forest  ideas  out  of 
one's  head.  It  was  nine  o'clock,  and  the  dancing  had 
begun.  The  Profile  House  is  a  small  world  in  the  midst 
of  the  mountain  solitudes.  Including  guests  and  persons 
employed  about  the  house,  there  were  nearly  eight  hun- 
dred men,  women,  and  children  there  that  night,  and 
every  station  in  life  was  represented. 

Have  I  any  where  in  these  sketches  mentioned  my  old 
friend,  Major  Wilson  ?  He  was  sometimes  one  of  our 
group  at  the  Rookery  in  years  past,  but  since  he  had 
grown  to  full  age  he  seldom  ventured  far  from  his  own 
dinner-table.  Why  should  he,  since  he  esteemed  it  the 
main  luxury  of  life  ?  Do  not  imagine  him  a  useless  man, 
a  mere  bon-vivant.  He  was  a  hearty  old  man,  a  patron 
of  art,  and  very  generous  withal.  A  man  is  none  the 
worse  for  loving  a  good  dinner.  Gastronomy  is  as  much 
one  of  the  fine  arts  as  trout-fishing  or  sculpture.  It  is 
very  depraved  taste  which  despises  good  cookery.  Table 
decoration,  furniture,  and  provision  form  almost  the  only 
safe  standard  by  which  to  estimate  national  or  individual 


CIVILIZATION.  257 

civilization;  for  civilization  is  not,  as  some  people  imag- 
ine, a  question  of  morals  or  religion.  Christianity  is  not 
synonymous  with  civilization  ;  neither  does  its  introduc- 
tion civilize  a  nation.  It  deals  with  the  individual  man,  not 
with  communities.  Men  call  New  York  a  Christian  city, 
England  a  Christian  country,  the  people  of  the  United 
States  a  Christian  people.  This  is  pure  nonsense.  There 
are  not  more  than  one  in  ten,  perhaps  not  more  than  one 
in  a  hundred,  of  the  people  who  are  in  any  proper  sense 
Christians;  whose  morals,  manners,  or  characters  have 
been  directly  touched  by  the  refining  influences  of  person- 
al Christianity.  Obviously  the  influence  and  example  of 
the  Christian  has  its  effect  on  his  companions,  but  that 
is  no  reason  for  calling  a  people  Christian  who  have  only 
a  small  sprinkling  of  Christians  among  them.  Nor  can 
we  stand  a  comparison  with  some  heathen  nations.  Chris- 
tianity can  not  afford  to  be  saddled  with  the  absurd  and 
barbarous  customs  of  our  social  life,  or  with  the  manners 
and  customs  of  so-called  Christian  peoples,  especially 
when  it  appears  that  the  civilization  of  Japan  is  in  many 
respects  in  advance  of  that  of  England  or  America.  We 
have  innumerable  habits  and  manners  which  are  barba- 
rous. The  dress  of  a  gentleman  or  of  a  lady  in  New 
York  in  this  year  1873  is  barbarous,  whether  regarded  by 
standards  of  taste,  comfort,  or  usefulness.  A  dress-coat 
was  no  more  absurd  a  costume  on  the  West  Coast  African, 
who  wore  nothing  else,  than  it  is  on  the  diner-out  of  New 
York.  A  stove-pipe  hat  is  so  thoroughly  ridiculous  that 
no  barbarous  nation  has  ever  invented  any  thing  remote- 
ly resembling  it. 

Seek  a  standard  where  you  will,  and,  after  all,  it  will  be 
found  that  the  manner  and  matter  of  feeding  is  a  tolera- 
bly safe  one  by  which  to  measure  comparative  civilization. 

R 


258  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

The  Major  had  been  a  week  or  two  at  the  Profile 
House,  living  at  his  ease,  and  rather  content  with  the 
table,  which  was  not  by  any  means  a  poor  one,  and  sol- 
aced for  any  minor  failures  by  his  own  wine.  He  did  not 
wander  much  among  the  mountains,  but  contented  him- 
self, book  in  hand,  with  the  sunshine  on  the  broad  piazza, 
and  evenings  in  his  own  rooms,  where  his  man  John,  who 
had  been  his  personal  servant  more  than  thirty  years, 
took  care  to  make  him  comfortable.  His  rooms  were 
near  mine,  and  that  evening  after  Dupont  and  myself  had 
dined — for  I  make  it  dinner  however  late  the  coming 
home  occurs — I  went  to  see  the  Major. 

One  can  be  very  comfortable  in  a  summer  hotel  if  he 
will  take  a  little  trouble  and  go  to  a  little  expense.  One 
can  not  be  comfortable  at  any  summer  hotel  in  America 
or  the  world  without  these.  The  rooms  of  my  friend  were 
two  ordinary  bed-rooms,  one  of  which  he  used  as  a  salon; 
and  by  a  very  little  exertion  it  had  been  made  into  a  cozy 
and  rather  brilliant  room.  The  table  was  literally  covered 
with  books  and  periodicals,  for  the  Major  had  a  hunger 
for  reading  which  could  never  be  satisfied,  and  every 
mail  brought  him  packages.  He  was  tearing  off  the 
envelope  from  an  Innspruck  book-catalogue  as  I  en- 
tered the  room,  and  I  recognized  the  label  of  an  old  ac- 
quaintance. 

"  So  you  get  catalogues  from  Carl  Pfaundler,  do  you  ? 
I  have  picked  up  some  good  things  in  his  shop." 

"Yes.  I  have  a  pretty  extensive  list  of  booksellers 
sending  me  their  catalogues,  but  it's  getting  to  be  rather  a 
nuisance.  I've  about  done  with  buying  old  books.  Come 
in;  find  a  chair — John,  a  chair — help  yourself  to  the  claret. 
You  dined  late  I  fancy.  Did  you  get  me  a  good  trout  for 
breakfast?" 


AMERICAN    MARKETS.  259 

"  Not  a  trout.  I  took  a  bat  on  the  wing.  Did  you 
ever  eat  bat?" 

"  Never.  I  suppose  it  would  be  about  the  same  thing 
as  mice.  Mice  are  not  good  ;  the  flavor  is  musky.  Rats 
are  much  better,  and  very  decent  eating,  if  they  are  prop- 
erly fed.  I  don't  know  why  bats  might  not  be  made  eat- 
able. They  are  carnivorous ;  but  dogs  are  good  food,  if 
well  cooked.  However,  we  don't  need  to  try  experiments 
in  this  land,  where  the  markets  are  better  than  in  any 
other  country  on  earth." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  Major.  I  have  said 
it  often,  and  it's  pleasant  to  be  backed  by  a  man  of  your 
gastronomic  -taste." 

"Who  disputes  it?  Surely  no  one  who  knows  any 
thing  about  eating.  There  are  articles,  of  course,  which 
are  to  be  found  in  other  countries  superior  to  the  same 
article  here  ;  but  America  is  the  only  land  for  general 
good  eating.  One  gets  fearfully  tired  of  a  European 
kitchen,  even  with  all  the  resources  of  Paris  in  the  palmi- 
est days  of  The  Brothers.  But  here  the  varieties  of  fish 
and  flesh  are  inexhaustible ;  and  fruit — nowhere  in  the 
world  is  there  a  fruit  market  comparable  with  that  of 
New  York.  An  English  sole  is  not  equal  in  flavor  to  a 
flounder  taken  in  clear  water  at  Stonington,  and  a  turbot 
is  no  better  than  a  tautog.  Shad,  sheepshead,  Spanish 
mackerel,  red  snappers,  bass,  blue-fish — a  fresh  blue-fish 
is  glorious — where  will  you  stop  in  the  list  of  fish  that 
abound  on  our  coast,  every  one  of  which  is  better  than 
any  salt-water  fish  known  on  the  other  side  of  the  At- 
lantic ?" 

"  Excepting  sardines." 

"Well, I  may  perhaps  except  sardines." 

"May?     None  of  your  prejudices,  old  fellow.     There's 


260  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

no  dish  of  fish  to  be  invented  equal  to  sardines,  fried  and 
served  as  they  used  to  do  it  in  the  old  San  Marco  at 
Leghorn.  I  lament  the  closing  of  that  house  with  pro- 
found regret.  I  have  gone  down  from  Florence  more 
than  once  to  pass  a  night  there  just  for  the  sake  of  the 
delicious  breakfast  I  used  to  get  on  those  sardines.  No 
one  else  cooked  or  served  them  so  in  any  town  on  the 
French  or  Italian  coast." 

"  I  remember  fifty  years  ago  seeing  them  catch  sardines 
along  the  shore  at  Naples." 

"  Yes,  I  have  sat  many  a  morning  in  the  window  at  the 
old  Vittoria,  looking  out  on  the  sea  and  watching  the  sar- 
dine nets  come  in,  glittering  with  diamonds;  and  I  have 
taken  them  with  a  rod  at  Leghorn." 

"  I  never  found  trout  south  of  the  Alps.    Why  is  that?" 

"  Simply  because  you  never  looked  for  them  yourself. 
The  hotels  rarely  furnish  them ;  but  you  can  get  them  in 
Lombardy  if  you  want  them.  I  have  taken  trout  in  the 
Izak  above  Trent,  and  at  Botzen." 

"  My  dear  boy,  what  a  muddle  your  brain  must  be  in 
about  historic  places.  The  idea  of  talking  about  trout- 
fishing  at  Trent,  a  place  with  which  one  never  associated 
any  idea  but  of  profound  ecclesiastical  and  theological 
significance." 

"There's  a  charm  in  trout-fishing,  Major,  which  you 
would  have  appreciated  if  your  education  had  not  been 
neglected.  It  has  never  failed  me;  and  I  have  studied 
no  small  amount  of  history  as  I  strolled  along  the  bank 
of  a  trout  stream.  Were  you  ever  at  Salzburg  ?" 

"Three  several  times,  and  always  fared  well  at  the 
Hotel  de  FEurope." 

"  Ah  yes,  you  think  first  of  the  hotel.  So  do  many  old 
travelers.  So  I  confess  do  I  sometimes.  A  poor  inn  is 


TROUT   IN   THE   TYROL.  261 

a  fearful  obstacle  to  the  enjoyment  of  art  or  antiquity. 
But  there  are  trout  streams  around  Salzburg,  and  some 
fine  trout  in  them ;  and  I  have  passed  some  of  the  pleas- 
antest  days  along  those  streams,  looking  up  at  the  grand 
pile  of  the  Untersberg,  in  whose  caverns  the  two  emperors 
sit  face  to  face,  sleeping,  but  now  nearly  ready  to  wake.  I 
was  fishing  there  in  June,  1871,  and  wondering  what  could 
happen  to  rouse  the  mighty  Charles,  and  a  month  later 
the  thunders  of  Weissembourg  must  have  shaken  the  im- 
perial slumbers.  But  Ischl,  Major,  Ischl — were  you  ever 
at  Ischl  ?  It  is  the  most  lovely  spot  in  Europe.  Go  there 
before  you  die,  and  don't  go  to  the  Hotel  Bauer  on  the 
hill,  but  to  Sarsteiner's,  The  Kreutz,  a  capital  inn,  with 
old  books  in  the  halls,  and  pictures  of  all  sorts  of  places, 
and  large  bed-rooms  and  saloons,  and  a  kitchen  that  is 
not  to  be  surpassed  in  or  out  of  the  Tyrol.  It  will  suit 
you.  The  valley  of  the  Traun  is  a  glorious  place,  and 
the  river  is  the  only  river  my  eyes  ever  saw  which  is  in- 
disputably superior  in  beauty  of  water  to  our  White  Mount- 
ain streams.  The  delicate  apple-green  tint  does  not  harm 
its  transparency.  You  can  see  bottom  in  twenty  feet  of 
water.  It  flows  like  a  liquid  chrysoprase,  and  the  trout 
and  grayling  in  it  are  superb.  Mr.  Sarsteiner  controls 
all  the  fishing  in  the  valley,  and  is  himself  an  angler,  a 
man  of  reading  and  extensive  travel,  and  is  interested  in 
fish-breeding.  The  fishing  is  close  at  hand  too.  I  went 
out  of  the  house  one  evening  about  seven  o'clock,  and 
walked  in  five  minutes  to  the  other  side  of  the  Traun,  just 
above  the  bridge  and  opposite  the  promenade,  where  the 
river  glides  swiftly  down  over  a  pebble  bottom.  It  was 
nearly  dark,  but  in  fifteen  minutes  I  had  a  half-dozen  good 
trout  which  the  boy  stowed  safely  in  a  barrel;  for  in 
Switzerland  and  the  Tyrol,  when  you  go  a-fishing,  you 


262  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

have  always  with  you  a  boy  who  carries  a  small  barrel  in 
which  it  is  his  duty  to  keep  the  fish  alive  until  they  are 
transferred  to  the  tank  which  every  inn  keeps  stocked 
with  plenty  of  trout.  It  had  gotten  to  be  quite  dark,  and 
I  was  casting  a  large  white  moth  across  the  swift  current, 
when  I  got  the  heaviest  strike,  with  one  exception,  that  I 
ever  felt  from  a  trout  in  Europe.  He  made  a  splendid 
struggle;  but  the  little  Norris  rod  did  its  duty,  and  I 
brought  him  to  barrel  in  a  few  minutes — that  is  to  say,  I 
landed  and  unhooked  him,  and  handed  him  to  the  boy 
while  I  hurried  to  cast  again.  I  had  made  only  one  cast 
when  the  boy  shouted, '  He's  too  big  for  the  barrel ;'  and 
I  turned  to  laugh  at  his  vain  endeavors  to  crowd  his  tail 
into  the  hole.  He  was,  in  fact,  two  inches  longer  than 
the  barrel,  which  had  not  been  made  in  expectation  of 
such  fish.  So  I  slipped  him  into  his  short  quarters,  and 
gave  up  the  sport,  and  in  five  minutes  he  was  the  admira- 
tion of  a  crowd  in  the  kitchen  of  the  Golden  Cross,  swim- 
ming around  in  a  small  tank  into  which  cold  spring  water 
poured  a  steady -stream.  He  weighed  only  two  and  three 
quarter  pounds  English;  but  Mr.  Sarsteiner  told  me  that, 
though  he  had  seen  larger  trout  there,  he  was  one  of  the 
largest,  if  not  the  largest,  that  he  had  ever  known  taken 
with  a  fly  in  the  Tyrol.  All  the  way  up  the  river  to  Lake 
Haldstadt  there  are  plenty  of  fine  trout,  and  I  have  en- 
joyed many  a  day's  sport  along  the  beautiful  stream." 

"Now  for  the  exception." 

"  What  exception  ?" 

"  You  said  it  was  the  heaviest  strike,  with  one  excep- 
tion, that  you  ever  felt  in  Europe." 

"  I'm  a  little  ashamed  of  that  other.  You  remember 
the  Rhine  above  the  falls,  from  Schafifhausen  to  the  Cha- 
teau Laufen  ?  I  was  fishing  it  one  evening,  years  ago,  in 


TROUT    IN    THE    RHINE.  263 

a  boat,  with  a  strong  German  boy  to  row.  I  had  to  keep 
a  sharp  look-out,  for  the  current  is  wild,  and  it  is  not  quite 
sure  that,  if  you  are  careless,  you  may  not  go  over  the  falls. 
By-the-by,  Major,  with  all  our  boasting,  we  haven't  many 
cataracts  in  America  as  fine  as  the  Rhine  Falls.  It's  a 
grand  piece  of  scenery.  It  looks  better  from  below  than 
above,  however,  if  you  happen  to  be  in  a  heavy  boat  with 
a  stupid  boy  as  oarsman.  We  were  just  on  the  edge  of 
the  swift  water,  and  I  told  him  to  hold  on  by  the  bushes 
and  keep  the  craft  steady  while  I  cast.  He  obeyed,  until 
a  tremendous  swirl  and  swash  startled  him  as  a  trout 
struck  the  fly.  The  rush  was  so  sudden  that  the  boy  was 
absolutely  scared,  so  that  he  let  go  the  bushes,  and  the 
boat  swept  right  across  the  line  at  the  same  instant  that 
the  trout  went  down.  My  second  joint  broke  close  to 
the  butt  ferrule,  and  we  went  like  lightning  toward  the 
falls.  I  dropped  my  rod  to  seize  an  oar,  and  threw  my 
whole  weight  on  it.  The  boat  yielded,  took  the  cant  I 
intended,  and  plunged  bow  on  into  the  bank,  where  I 
seized  the  bushes  and  held  on  till  the  young  Teuton  came 
to  his  senses.  Meantime  the  second  joint  and  tip  had 
gone  overboard,  and  the  reel  was  paying  out.  I  brought 
in  line  very  gently,  and  grasping  the  lower  end  of  the  sec- 
ond joint,  dropped  the  butt,  and  proceeded  to  try  an  old 
and  difficult  plan  of  using  the  hand  instead  of  a  reel.  As 
soon  as  I  got  in  slack  enough  I  felt  the  fish.  He  was  at 
the  bottom,  and  made  a  rush  when  he  felt  the  first  steady 
pressure  of  the  tip.  It  took  me  twenty  minutes,  with  sec- 
ond joint  and  tip,  to  kill  that  trout,  well  on  to  four  pounds' 
weight,  and  the  largest  I  ever  killed  east  of  the  Atlantic. 
That  same  evening  I  took  twenty  more  trout,  and  no  one 
of  them  went  over  four  ounces." 

"I  am  one  of  the  few,"  said  the   Major,  sipping  his 


264  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

claret  appreciatively,  and  then  tossing  the  full  glass  down 
his  capacious  throat,  as  if  to  wash  a  way  out  for  talk — 
"  I  am  one  of  the  few  who  once  loved  angling,  but  have 
lost  their  taste  for  it.  I've  been  latterly  thinking  the 
matter  over,  and — can  you  justify  yourself  in  it  ?  Isn't  it 
cruelty  to  animals?  You  know  these  are  days  in  which 
men  are  getting  to  have  notions  on  that  subject." 

"  I've  no  objection  to  their  notions,  and  I  have  the 
highest  opinion  of  the  society  for  the  prevention  of  cruel- 
ty to  animals;  but  we  must  guard  our  sympathies  that 
they  do  not  go  too  far.  No  man  of  decency  will  be  guilty 
of  wanton  cruelty  to  a  beast.  I  have  a  warm  love  for 
some  beasts.  My  dogs,  my  horses,  have  I  not  loved 
them  ?  But  there  is  much  nonsense  afloat  on  the  sub- 
ject. I  rate  the  life  of  a  beast  somewhat  lower  than  that 
of  a  man,  and  his  comfort  in  the  same  ratio.  I  must  often 
work  even  when  I  am  sick.  Rheumatism  bothers  me, 
and  I  have  frequently  to  walk  and  even  run  when  I  am 
lame.  Yes,  perhaps  it  is  gout.  We  won't  discuss  that ; 
but  lame  or  not  I  must  work.  Business  requires  it.  I 
would  drive  a  lame  horse  for  the  same  reason.  A  poor 
carman  can  not  afford  to  let  his  horse  rest,  any  more 
than  he  can  afford  to  rest  himself,  on  account  of  a  slight 
ailment.  It's  an  error  therefore  to  suppose  it  always 
wrong  to  get  work  out  of  a  suffering  animal.  So,  too,  I 
would  kill  a  horse  to  accomplish  a  result  which  I  valued 
at  a  higher  rate  than  the  life  of  the  horse,  if  I  could  not 
accomplish  it  in  any  other  way.  Some  philanthropists, 
good  men,  but  thoughtless,  who  would  never  dream  of 
blaming  a  man  for  earning  his  bread  and  that  of  his  chil- 
dren when  he  was  sick  and  suffering,  but  would  rather 
commend  him,  would  fine  and  imprison  him  for  working 
his  sick  horse  with  the  same  necessity  impelling  him. 


CRUELTY   TO    BEASTS.  265 

"  They  should  try  to  make  a  reasonable  distinction  in 
these  matters  between  wanton  cruelty  and  the  necessary 
work  that  we  must  get  out  of  a  sick  animal.  I  never  saw 
a  nobler  beast,  or  one  to  which  I  was  more  thoroughly 
attached  than  my  bay  horse  Mohammed;  but  great  as 
he  was  and  much  as  I  loved  him,  do  you  not  believe  I 
would  have  ridden  him  through  fire  and  tempest  till  he 
fell  down  dead,  if  it  were  necessary  to  save  his  mistress, 
who  loved  him  as  well  as  I,  a  pain  or  a  sorrow  ?  Should 
I  let  her  suffer  to  save  a  horse  from  suffering?  Does 
your  notion  of  charity  extend  so  far  as  that  ?  mine  does 
not.  I  might  give  myself  pain  to  save  him  pain ;  but 
her  ? — Never.  Mohammed  would  have  said  so  too  if  he 
could  have  spoken.  I  know  he  would. 

"  In  war  this  whole  subject  is  understood  well,  and  no 
one  thinks  of  finding  fault  with  the  destruction  of  the 
lives  of  beasts  to  accomplish  the  purposes  of  men ;  for  in 
war  human  life  is  freely  expended  to  purchase  results. 
Who  would  blame  an  officer  for  using  his  lame,  sick,  dy- 
ing mules  and  horses  to  the  last  moment  to  accomplish 
an  object  in  the  face  of  the  enemy  ?  It  is  then  a  mere 
question  with  beasts  and  with  men,  how  much  must  be 
sacrificed  to  do  the  work.  Would  you  require  them  to 
let  sick  mules  rest  in  hospital,  if  they  had  no  others?" 

"  Then  you  don't  approve  of  stopping  cars  and  omni- 
busses  in  New  York,  and  compelling  the  passengers  to 
dismount  and  find  other  conveyances,  because  the  horses 
are  lame  ?" 

"  Not  at  all.  It  is  well  meant,  but  it  is  bad  in  princi- 
ple, and  injures  the  society  which  does  it.  It  would  be 
right  and  proper  to  take  a  note  of  the  horses  and  their 
owners  and  drivers,  and  make  the  necessary  complaint  in 
the  police  court,  and  if  the  animals  were  treated  with 


266  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

wanton  cruelty  punish  the  guilty.  But  the  time  of  a  pas- 
senger is  often  worth  thousands  of  dollars  per  minute, 
and  the  probability  of  such  value  outweighs  all  consider- 
ations of  comfort  to  horses.  In  the  days  of  the  horse 
disease,  when  all  the  cities  were  suffering,  it  was  both 
necessary  and  proper  to  use  sick  horses  for  transporta- 
tion. It  was  a  pure  question  of  money  value  then.  Shall 
a  merchant  allow  ten  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  perish- 
able goods  to  decay  for  the  sake  of  saving  the  health  or 
the  comfort  of  a  cart-horse  ?  Yet  the  absurd  proposition 
was  forced  on  the  public  that  it  was  their  duty  to  sacri- 
fice their  own  comfort,  property,  and  health  to  the  com- 
fort of  the  horses.  Nonsense.  If  you  had  a  sick  child, 
would  you  hesitate  to  kill  a  horse  if  necessary  to  get  a 
surgeon  or  a  physician  in  time  to  save  the  child's  life  ? 
If  you  had  a  loaded  wagon  full  of  perishable  articles  of 
great  value,  would  you  hesitate  to  use  your  lame  horses, 
or  kill  them  if  necessary  to  save  your  property  ?  Let  us 
teach  kindness  to  animals,  men  and  beasts,  and  make  it 
infamous  to  treat  them  with  unnecessary  or  wanton  cru- 
elty ;  but  don't  let  us  get  our  ideas  mixed  up  on  the  sub- 
ject, so  that  we  place  the  comfort  of  the  beasts  above 
that  of  the  men.  For  all  our  purposes  the  comfort  and 
the  life  of  a  beast  have  a  measurable  value.  The  owner 
is  the  judge  of  that  value  to  him." 

"  But  how  about  killing  fish  for  sport  ?" 

"  In  the  name  of  sense,  man,  if  God  made  fish  to  be 
eaten,  what  difference  does  it  make  if  I  enjoy  the  killing 
of  them  before  I  eat  them  ?  You  would  have  none  but 
a  fisherman  by  trade  do  it,  and  then  you  would  have  him 
utter  a  sigh,  a  prayer,  and  a  pious  ejaculation  at  each 
cod  or  haddock  that  he  killed ;  and  if  by  chance  the  old 
fellow,  sitting  in  the  boat  at  his  work,  should  for  a  mo- 


MORALITY   OF   ANGLING.  267 

ment  think  there  was,  after  all,  a  little  fun  and  a  little 
pleasure  in  his  business,  you  would  have  him  take  a 
round  turn  with  his  line,  and  drop  on  his  knees  to  ask 
forgiveness  for  the  sin  of  thinking  there  was  sport  in 
fishing. 

"I  can  imagine  the  sad-faced,  melancholy-eyed  man, 
who  makes  it  his  business  to  supply  game  for  the  market 
as  you  would  have  him,  sober  as  the  sexton  in  Hamlet, 
and  forever  moralizing  over  the  gloomy  necessity  that 
has  doomed  him  to  a  life  of  murder  !  Why,  sir,  he  would 
frighten  respectable  fish,  and  the  market  would  soon  be 
destitute. 

"The  keenest  day's  sport  in  my  journal  of  a  great 
many  years  of  sport  was  when,  in  company  with  some 
other  gentlemen,  I  took  three  hundred  blue-fish  in  three 
hours'  fishing  off  Block  Island,  and  those  fish  were  eaten 
the  same  night  or  the  next  morning  in  Stonington,  and 
supplied  from  fifty  to  a  hundred  different  tables,  as  we 
threw  them  up  on  the  dock  for  any  one  to  help  himself. 
I  am  unable  to  perceive  that  I  committed  any  sin  in  tak- 
ing them,  or  any  sin  in  the  excitement  and  pleasure  of 
taking  them. 

"  It  is  time  moralists  had  done  with  this  mistaken  mo- 
rality. If  you  eschew  animal  food  entirely,  then  you  may 
argue  against  killing  animals,  and  I  will  not  argue  with 
you.  But  the  logic  of  this  business  is  simply  this:  The 
Creator  made  fish  and  flesh  for  the  food  of  man,  and  as 
we  can't  eat  them  alive,  or  if  we  do  we  can't  digest  them 
alive,  the  result  is  we  must  kill  them  first,  and  (see  the 
old  rule  for  cooking  a  dolphin)  it  is  sometimes  a  further 
necessity,  since  they  won't  come  to  be  killed  when  we 
call  them,  that  we  must  first  catch  them.  Show  first,  then, 
that  it  is  a  painful  necessity — a  necessity  to  be  avoided 


268  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

if  possible — which  a  good  man  must  shrink  from  and  ab- 
hor, unless  starved  into  it,  to  take  fish  or  birds,  and  which 
he  must  do  when  he  does  it  with  regret,  and  with  sobri- 
ety and  seriousness,  as  he  would  whip  his  child,  or  shave 
himself  when  his  beard  is  three  days  old,  and  you  have 
your  case.  But  till  you  show  this,  I  will  continue  to  think 
it  great  sport  to  supply  my  market  with  fish. 

"  Between  ourselves,  Major,  I  am  of  opinion  that  Peter 
himself  chuckled  a  little  when  he  took  an  extra  large 
specimen  of  the  Galilee  carp,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that 
he  and  James,  and  even  the  gentle  and  beloved  John, 
pulled  with  a  will  on  the  miraculous  draught  of  fishes." 

"  Probably  you  are  right ;  but  I  have  lost  my  love  for 
the  sport.  I  can  hardly  say  how  it  came  about  with  me. 
I  think  it  was  the  result  of  a  long  illness  which  I  had  in 
my  middle  life,  and  from  which  I  recovered  slowly,  and 
in  such  strict  confinement  that  the  love  of  reading  grew 
on  me,  and  other  employments  lost  the  zest  which  I  once 
found  in  them.  I  sometimes  wonder  now  how  you  can 
read  all  winter  and  go  a-fishing  all  summer  as  you  do. 
I  can't  separate  myself  from  my  books." 

"  You  are  growing  quite  too  bookish  of  late  years,  if 
you  will  pardon  me  for  saying  so,  my  old  friend." 

"  As  how  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  you  are  getting  to  be  dreamy  in  your 
manner,  and  you  don't  seem  to  realize  the  common  events 
of  life.  You  live  so  much  among  thoughts  and  imagina- 
tions that  you're  getting  to  be  quite  useless  as  a  com- 
panion, except  when  one  wants  to  talk  or  listen." 

"I  haven't  lost  my  appreciation  of  claret." 

"  So  I  perceive." 

"  Your  glass  is  empty.     Help  yourself." 

"  Thanks  ;  I'm  doing  very  well." 


LITERATURE    OF   ANGLING. 


269 


"  Talking  of  books  and  fishing,  Effendi,  did  you  ever 
come  across  the  '  Dyalogus  Creaturarum  ?' " 

"Yes,  I  have  the  Gouda  edition  of  Leeu,  1482  I  believe 
is  the  date." 

"  There's  a  comical  little  picture  of  a  fisherman  in  it, 
illustrating  a  fabled  talk  between  two  fish.  I  don't  know 
whether  there  is  any  older  picture  of  the  gentle  art  in  ex- 
istence, but  that  is  worth  noting  as  a  historical  illustration, 
for  the  angler  there  uses  a  float."* 

"  The  literature  of  angling  is  abundant,  and  art  has  al- 
ways found  ample  range  in  its  illustration.  I  have  seen 
a  score  of  pictures  of  fishing  on  ancient  Egyptian  monu- 
ments. Many  modern  artists  are  enthusiastic  anglers. 
And  in  what  kind  of  life  could  they  find  more  of  the  beau- 
tiful ?  Look  at  a  trout.  Is  there  any  object  more  exqui- 
sitely beautiful  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  small  rattlesnake." 

"  Gaudy,  Major,  and  brilliant,  but  the  brilliancy  of  the 

*  I  have  thought  the  Major's  suggestion  so  good  that  I  here  repro- 
duce the  illustration,  in  fac-simile,  from  the  "Dyalogus  Creaturarum." 
Gouda,  Gerard  Leeu,  1482. 


270  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

diamond  and  ruby  compared  with  the  soft  glow  of  the 
pearl.  Do  you  know  these  little  Pemigewasset  trout  are 
so  exquisite  in  their  pearl  and  rose  colors  that  I  didn't 
wonder  the  other  day  at  the  exclamation  of  a  very  pretty 
girl  in  the  chariot  on  the  way  to  the  Flume,  when  they 
pulled  up  by  me  down  the  river  and  asked  to  see  my 
basket.  '  Oh,  I  want  to  kiss  them/  she  said." 

"  You  did'nt  know  her  ?" 

"  Never  saw  her  before,  or  since." 

"  It  was  a  fresh  remark.  I  like  it.  I  wonder  who  she 
was.  It's  a  pleasant  thing  now  and  then  to  hear  a  bit  of 
nature  out  of  red  lips." 

"  Your  experience  in  the  utterances  of  red  lips  is  rather 
limited,  Major.  I  was  telling  you  just  now  that  you  live 
too  much  on  books  and  too  little  on  realities." 

"  On  red  lips,  for  instance  ?" 

"  Exactly.  An  old  bachelor  like  you  has  great  oppor- 
tunities in  life.  You  might  take  to  fishing  even,  and  per- 
haps some  day,  when  you  have  a  full  basket,  a  pretty  girl 
may  ask  you  to  let  her  look  at  the  speckled  beauties,  and 
then — what  might  not  happen  as  a  consequence  ?" 

"  Bah  !     I've  been  through  it  all." 

"You?" 

u  T  J> 

"  Fishing  and—" 

"  Red  lips — yes.  Redder  than  this  blood  of  the  grape, 
and  a  thousand  times  as  maddening.  What  do  you  boys 
of  these  late  years  fancy  you  can  teach  me,  either  in  sports 
of  the  forest  or  loves  of  the  town.  I  had  drunk  all  the 
wine  of  that  life  up,  and  the  cup  was  empty  before  you 
were  born." 

The  Major  was  excited,  and  his  dates  were  evidently 
confused.  But  it  was  refreshing  to  be  called  a  boy,  and 


NIGHT   IN    THE    FOREST.  271 

I  urged  him  on.  He  told  stories  of  old  sporting  days, 
which  proved  that  he  was  no  idle  boaster  when  he  said 
he  had  gone  through  all  that.  He  grew  fairly  brilliant  as 
he  talked. 

"I  remember,"  said  he,  "the  very  last  night  I  ever 
passed  in  the  forest.  It  had  been  some  years  then  since 
I  had  given  up  my  rifle  and  rod,  but  an  old  companion 
persuaded  me  to  join  him  in  November  in  Sullivan  County, 
in  New  York,  and  I  went  up  the  Erie  Railroad  to  Narrows- 
burg,  and  struck  out  into  the  woods  for  a  ten-mile  tramp 
to  our  appointed  place  of  meeting.  I  knew  the  country 
as  well  as  you  know  these  mountains,  but  at  evening  I 
had  loitered  so  that  instead  of  being  near  the  cabin  of 
our  old  guide  I  was  three  miles  away;  darkness  was  set- 
tling down  fast,  and  a  heavy  snow-storm  was  evidently 
coming  on.  I,  who  had  often  said  I  would  never  camp 
out  again  so  long  as  roofs  remained  among  the  inhabit- 
ants of  earth,  found  myself  wishing  for  the  darkest  hole  in 
a  rock  or  a  hollow  tree.  Is  it  that  the  ground  is  not  so 
soft  a  bed  as  it  used  to  be,  or  have  we  grown  harder  ? 

"  Night  and  gloom  thickened  around  me.  My  eyes, 
from  watching  the  clouds,  retained  vision  of  them  longer 
than  one  who  opened  his  suddenly  at  the  place  and  time 
would  have  believed  possible.  The  trees  had  passed 
through  the  various  shapes  and  shadows  which  they  as- 
sume in  the  twilight  and  first  darkness.  They  were  grim, 
tall  giants,  some  standing,  some  leaning,  some  fallen 
prone  and  lying  as  they  fell,  dead  and  still ;  and  some  had 
gone  to  dust  that  lay  in  long  mounds,  like  the  graves  of 
old  kings.  I  kept  on,  pushing  my  way  steadily,  for  there 
was  no  spot  that  I  could  find  fit  for  a  resting-place,  and 
I  had  hope  of  reaching  a  good  point  for  the  night-halt  by 
proceeding.  I  hit  on  it  at  length.  There  was  a  hill  down 


272  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

which  I  went,  tripping  at  every  fourth  step,  and  plunging 
into  indescribable  heaps  of  brush  and  leaves  and  stones, 
until  I  came  out  suddenly  on  the  edge  of  a  piece  of  burnt 
land,  which  a  fire  had  gone  over  last  summer.  A  pile  of 
fallen  trees  lay  on  the  very  border  of  the  unburned  forest, 
and  I  sought  shelter  among  them  from  a  driving  blast, 
which  now  brought  snow  with  it  in  quantities.  I  faced 
the  tempest  a  moment,  and  thought  of  that  passage  in 
which  Festus  described  the  angels  thronging  to  Eden,  and 
'alighting  like  to  snow-flakes.'  I  wished  that  there  were 
more  similarity,  and  that  the  flakes  were  fewer  and  farther 
between.  But  there  was  a  terrible  reality  in  the  night 
and  storm,  which  drove  poetry  from  my  brain.  At  this 
moment  I  discovered  a  pile  of  hemlock  bark,  gathered  by 
some  one  to  be  carried  to  the  tanneries.  It  was  the  first 
indication  of  this  being  an  inhabited  part  of  the  world ; 
but  it  was  no  proof  that  inhabitants  were  near,  for  these 
piles  of  bark  are  often  gathered  in  remote  parts  of  the 
forest.  But  it  was  a  great  discovery.  There  was  enough 
of  it  to  roof  the  City  Hall ;  and  in  fifteen  minutes  there 
was  as  neat  a  cabin  built  among  the  fallen  timber  as  any 
man  could  desire  under  the  circumstances.  It  was  artist- 
ically built  too,  for  I  had  built  such  before ;  and,  by-the- 
by,  I  recollect  one  which  Joe  Willis  once  constructed,  in 
which  the  chimney  arrangements  proved  unsafe,  and  we 
awoke  at  about  daylight  among  the  flames  of  our  entire 
establishment.  True,  he  laid  it  to  my  restlessness  in  the 
night,  and  actually  charged  me  with  getting  my  feet  into 
the  fire  and  scattering  the  coals,  while  I  dreamed  of  the 
immortal — who  was  it  that  won  immortality  by  setting  fire 
to  the  Temple  of  Diana?  But  it  was  false,  atrociously 

false.     I  was  dreaming  of ,  but  let  that  pass. 

"  The  wind  grew  furious,  and  the  snow  came  thicker, 


NIGHT    IN    THE    FOREST.  273 

finer,  and  faster,  but  none  reached  me  as  I  sat  in  my 
shelter,  open  indeed  on  one  side,  but  fully  protected  there 
by  a  fire  built  at  a  safe  distance,  which  blazed  as  a  pile 
should  blaze  that  was  the  funeral  pyre  of  more  than  one 
of  the  forest  giants. 

"  And  now  the  sound  of  the  wind  in  the  forest  grew  ter- 
rible in  the  grandeur  of  its  harmonies.  A  lonesome  man, 
far  from  my  fellows,  the  sole  human  companion  of  the 
storm,  the  sole  human  witness  of  the  fury  of  the  tempest, 
I  sat,  or  lay,  half-reclined  on  the  heap  of  brush  that  I  had 
gathered  for  a  bed,  and  with  my  hand  screening  my  face 
from  the  intense  heat  of  the  fire,  looked  out  into  the  abyss 
of  darkness,  and  watched  the  snow-flakes  driving  from  far 
up  down  toward  the  flames,  as  if  they  sought  instantane- 
ous and  glad  relief  from  cold  and  wretched  wanderings  ; 
and  I  wondered  whether,  of  intelligent  creatures,  I  was 
alone  in  that  wild,  grand,  and  magnificent  scene. 

"  Sometimes  I  thought  I  could  hear  human  voices  in 
the  lull  of  the  storm  ;  but  oftener  I  imagined  that  the  in- 
habitants of  other  worlds  were  near,  and  that  they  were 
unearthly  sounds  which  were  so  strange  and  abrupt  and 
startling;  and  when  I  closed  my  eyes  I  was  certain 
that,  among  all  the  confusion,  I  could  hear  the  rushing 
wings  of  more  than  ten  legions  of  angels ;  and  in  a  mo- 
ment of  still  calm,  one  of  those  awful  pauses  that  occur  in 
furious  storms,  in  the  deep,  solemn  silence  I  heard  a  cry, 
a  faint  but  wild  and  mournful  cry,  and  it  seemed  far  off, 
farther  than  the  forest,  farther  than  the  opposite  mount- 
ain, beyond  the  confines  of  the  world,  and  the  cry  grew 
into  a  wail — a  wail  of  unutterable  anguish,  agony,  and 
woe — such  a  wail  as  might  have  been  Eve's  when  the 
flaming  sword  flashed  between  her  and  Abel ;  and  it 
came  nearer,  nearer,  nearer,  and  it  filled  the  air,  the  sky, 

S 


274  I    G°   A- FISHING. 

the  universe  it  seemed,  and  thrilled  through  my  soul  till  I 
sprang  to  my  feet,  and  dashed  out  into  the  blinding,  mad 
tempest.  It  was  so  long  since  I  had  heard  it,  that  I  had 
forgotten  that  voice  of  the  mountain  wind ;  but  now  I  re- 
membered it  as  the  blasts  swept  by  me,  wailing,  shouting, 
laughing,  shrieking,  and  I  retired  to  my  warm  nook,  and 
laughed  back  at  the  storm,  and  slept  and  dreamed.  I 
never  slept  better. 

"I  awoke  at  day-break,  and  the  storm  was  over.  A 
blue  break  in  the  clouds  let  through  the  light  of  a  Novem- 
ber moon,  clear,  soft,  and  exceedingly  beautiful.  Dawn 
drove  the  moonlight  out  of  the  forest,  and  I  pushed  on 
then  and  got  my  breakfast  with  old  Steven  in  his  cabin. 
I  have  never  slept  in  the  forest  since  that  night.  Help 
yourself  to  the  claret,  Effendi.  It  seems  to  me  it's  grow- 
ing cold.  Yes ;  I  have  led  that  life,  and  liked  it  well 
enough  once." 

"You've  told  me  of  your  forest  experiences,  Major,  but 
you  rather  fight  shy  of  the  subject  of  the  red  lips." 

"  I  tell  you  I  have  tasted  the  wine  of  red  lips  to  intox- 
ication :  but  there  were  lips  that  I  never  touched  whose 
utterances  were  more  intoxicating." 

The  Major  sat  looking  into  the  fire;  for  though  it  was 
August  we  had  bright  wood  fires  in  the  evenings,  as  we 
often  do  at  the  Profile  House.  He  looked  very  steadily  at 
the  coals  on  the  hearth,  shivered  once  as  if  he  were  cold, 
bolted  two  glasses  of  claret  in  quick  succession,  and  I 
waited,  confident  that  I  should  hear  his  story  at  last. 
Soon  he  began  to  talk. 

"  Draw  your  chair  close  up.  Light  another  pipe,  and 
fill  your  glass.  It  is  a  cold  night.  My  old  bones  shudder 
when  I  hear  the  wind  wail  over  the  house  and  through 
the  trees.  Capital  claret,  that !  John,  come  in  here. 


THE  MAJOR'S  STORY.  275 

Open  another  bottle  of  claret,  John.  What,  not  another ! 
Certainly,  man,  I  must  have  it.  This  is  only  the  second, 
and  Mr.  —  —  has  drank  half,  of  course.  Not  drank  any ! 
You  don't  mean  to  say  that  he  has  been  drinking  nothing 
all  the  blessed  evening  ?  Effendi,  I  thought  you  knew  my 
rules  better  than  that.  But  you  always  would  have  your 
own  way. 

"  One  more  bottle,  John — but  one.  It  shall  be  the  last ; 
and,  John,  get  some  Maraschino — one  of  the  thick,  black 
bottles  with  the  small  necks,  and  open  it.  But  you  know 
how,  old  fellow,  and  just  do  your  best  to  make  us  com- 
fortable. 

"  How  the  wind  howls  !  My  boy,  I  am  seventy-three 
years  old,  and  seven  days  over.  My  birthday  was  a  week 
ago  to-day. 

"  An  old  bachelor !  Yea,  verily.  One  of  the  oldest 
kind.  But  what  is  age?  What  is  the  paltry  sum  of 
seventy  years  ?  Do  you  think  I  am  any  older  in  my  soul 
than  I  was  half  a  century  ago  ?  Do  you  think,  because 
my  blood  flows  slower,  that  my  mind  thinks  more  slowly, 
my  feelings  spring  up  less  freely,  my  hopes  are  less  buoy- 
ant, less  cheerful,  if  they  look  forward  only  weeks  instead 
of  years  ?  I  tell  you,  boy,  that  seventy  years  are  a  day  in 
the  sweep  of  memory;  and  'once  young  forever  young' 
is  the  motto  of  an  immortal  soul.  I  know  I  am  what  men 
call  old;  I  know  my  cheeks  are  wrinkled  like  parchment, 
and  my  lips  are  thin,  and  my  head  gray  even  to  silver.  But 
in  my  soul  I  feel  that  I  am  young,  and  I  shall  be  young 
till  the  earthly  ceases  and  the  unearthly  and  eternal  be- 
gins. 

"  I  have  not  grown  one  day  older  than  I  was  at  thirty- 
two.  I  have  never  advanced  a  day  since  then.  All  my 
life  long  since  that  has  been  one  day — one  short  day ;  no 


276  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

night,  no  rest,  no  succession  of  hours,  events,  or  thoughts 
has  marked  any  advance. 

"  I  have  been  living  forty  years  by  the  light  of  one 
memory — by  the  side  of  one  grave. 

"John,  set  the  bottle  down  on  the  hearth.  You  may 
go.  You  need  not  sit  up  for  me.  We  will  see  each  other 
to  bed  to-night.  Go,  old  fellow,  and  sleep  soundly. 

"  She  was  the  purest  angel  that  flesh  ever  imprisoned, 
the  most  beautiful  child  of  Eve.  I  can  see  her  now.  Her 
eyes  raying  the  light  of  heaven — her  brow  white,  calm, 
and  holy — her  lips  wreathed  with  the  blessing  of  her 
smile.  She  was  as  graceful  as  a  form  seen  in  dreams, 
and  she  moved  through  the  scenes  around  her  as  you  have 
seen  the  angelic  visitors  of  your  slumber  move  through 
crowded  assemblies,  without  effort,  apparently  with  some 
superhuman  aid. 

"  She  was  fitted  to  adorn  the  splendid  house  in  which 
she  was  born  and  grew  to  womanhood.  It  was  a  grand 
old  place,  built  in  the  midst  of  a  growth  of  oaks  that 
might  have  been  there  when  Columbus  discovered  Amer- 
ica, and  seemed  likely  to  stand  a  century  longer.  They 
are  standing  yet,  and  the  wind  to-night  makes  a  wild  la- 
ment through  their  branches. 

"  I  recall  the  scenery  of  the  familiar  spot.  There  was 
a  stream  of  water  that  dashed  down  the  rocks  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  house,  and  which  kept  always  full  and 
fresh  an  acre  of  pond,  over  which  hung  willows  and  ma- 
ples and  other  trees,  while  on  the  surface  the  white  blos- 
som of  the  lotus  nodded  lazily  on  the  ripples  with  Egyp- 
tian sleepiness  and  languor. 

"  The  old  house  was  built  of  dark  stone,  and  had  a 
massive  appearance,  not  relieved  by  the  sombre  shade  in 
which  it  stood.  The  sunshine  seldom  penetrated  to  the 


THE   MAJORS   STORY.  277 

ground  in  the  summer  months,  except  in  one  spot,  just  in 
front  of  the  library  windows,  where  it  used  to  lie  and 
sleep  in  the  grass,  as  if  it  loved  the  old  place.  And  if 
sunshine  loved  it,  why  should  not  I  ? 

"  General  Lewis  was  one  of  the  pleasant,  old-fashioned 
men,  now  quite  gone  out  of  memory,  as  well  as  out  of  ex- 
istence. He  loved  his  horses,  his  dogs,  his  house,  his 
punch.  He  loved  his  nephew  Tom,  uncouth,  rough  cub 
that  he  was;  but  above  horses,  dogs,  house,  or  all  to- 
gether, he  loved  his  daughter  Sarah,  and  I  loved  her  too. 

"  Yes,  you  may  look  at  me  as  you  will,  I  loved  Sarah 
Lewis;  and,  by  all  the  gods,  I  love  her  now  as  I  loved  her 
then,  and  as  I  shall  love  her  if  I  meet  her  again. 

"  Call  it  folly,  call  it  boyish,  call  it  an  old  man's  whim, 
an  old  man's  second  childhood,  I  care  not  by  what  name 
you  call  it;  it  is  enough  that  to-night  the  image  of  that 
young  girl  stands  before  me  splendidly  beautiful  in  all  the 
holiness  of  her  young  glad  life,  and  I  could  bow  down  on 
my  knees  and  worship  her  now  again. 

"  Why  did  I  say  again  ?  For  forty  years  I  have  not 
ceased  to  worship  her.  If  I  kneel  to  pray  in  the  morn- 
ing, she  passes  between  me  and  God.  If  I  would  read 
the  prayers  at  evening  twilight,  she  looks  up  at  me  from 
the  page.  If  I  would  worship  on  a  Sabbath  morning  in 
the  church,  she  looks  down  on  me  from  some  unfathom- 
able distance,  some  unapproachable  height,  and  I  pray  to 
her  as  if  she  were  my  hope,  my  heaven. 

"  Sometimes  in  the  winter  nights  I  feel  a  coldness  steal- 
ing over  me,  and  icy  fingers  are  feeling  about  my  heart, 
as  if  to  grasp  and  still  it.  I  lie  calmly,  quietly,  and  I  think 
my  hour  is  at  hand ;  and  through  the  gloom,  and  through 
the  mists  and  films  that  gather  over  my  vision,  I  see  her 
afar  off,  still  the  same  angel  in  the  distant  heaven,  and  I 


278  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

reach  out  my  arms  to  her,  and  I  cry  aloud  on  God  to  let 
me  go  find  her,  and  on  her  to  come  to  me,  and  then  thick 
darkness  settles  on  me. 

"  The  doctor  calls  this  apoplexy,  and  says  I  shall  some 
day  die  in  a  fit  of  it.  What  do  doctors  know  of  the  tre- 
mendous influences  that  are  working  on  our  souls  ?  He, 
in  his  scientific  stupidity,  calls  it  a  disease,  and  warns  me 
against  wine  and  high  living,  as  if  I  did  not  understand 
what  it  is,  and  why  my  vision  at  such  times  reaches  so 
very  far  into  the  deep  unknown. 

"  I  have  spoken  of  Tom  Lewis,  her  cousin.  Rumor 
said  he  was  the  old  man's  heir  in  equal  proportion  with 
the  daughter ;  for  he  had  been  brought  up  in  the  family, 
and  had  always  been  treated  as  a  son.  He  was  a  good 
fellow,  if  he  was  rough,  for  he  had  the  goodness  that  all 
who  came  within  her  influence  must  have. 

"  I  have  seen  her  look  the  devil  out  of  him  often.  I 
remember  once  when  the  horses  had  behaved  in  a  way 
not  to  suit  him,  and  he  had  let  an  oath  or  two  escape  his 
lips  preparatory  to  putting  on  the  whip.  We  were  riding 
together  down  the  avenue,  and  he  raised  the  lash.  At 
the  moment  he  caught  her  eye.  She  was  walking  up 
from  the  lodge,  where  she  had  been  to  see  a  sick  child. 
She  saw  the  raised  whip,  and  her  eye  caught  his.  He  did 
not  strike.  The  horses  escaped  for  that  time.  He  drove 
them  quietly  through  the  gate,  and  three  miles  and  back 
without  a  word  of  anger. 

"Did  I  tell  you  I  was  her  cousin  also?  A  second 
cousin  on  her  mother's  side,  not  on  the  General's.  We 
lived  not  far  off,  and  I  lived  much  of  my  time  at  his  house. 
Tom  and  myself  had  been  inseparable,  and  we  did  not 
conceal  our  rivalry  from  each  other. 

"  '  Tom,'  said  I,  one  morning, '  why  can't  you  be  con- 


THE  MAJOR'S  STORY.  279 

tent  with  half  the  General's  fortune,  and  let  me  have  the 
other  half?' 

" '  Bah  !  Jerry,'  said  he, '  as  if  that  would  be  any  more 
even,  when  you  want  Sarah  with  it.  In  Heaven's  name, 
take  the  half  of  the  money,  ifthat's  all  you  want.' 

"  '  Can't  we  fix  it  so  as  to  make  an  even  division,  Tom  ? 
Take  all  the  fortune,  and  let  me  have  her,  and  I'll  call  it 
square.' 

"  '  Just  what  I  was  going  to  propose  to  you.  Be  rea- 
sonable now,  Jerry,  and  get  out  of  the  way.  You  must 
see  she  doesn't  care  a  copper  for  you.' 

"  I  twirled  a  rosebud  in  my  fingers  that  she  had  given 
me  that  morning,  and  replied — 

"  '  Poor  devil !  I  did  not  think  you  could  be  so  infatu- 
ated. Why,  Tom,  there  is  no  chance  for  you  under  the 
sun.  But  go  ahead ;  find  it  out  as  you  will.  I'm  sorry 
for  you.' 

"  A  hundred  such  talks  we  used  to  have,  and  she  never 
gave  either  of  us  one  particle  more  of  encouragement 
than  the  other.  She  was  like  a  sister  to  us  both,  and 
neither  dared  to  break  the  spell  of  our  perfect  happiness 
by  asking  her  to  be  more. 

"  And  so  time  passed  on. 

"  One  summer  afternoon  we  were  off  together  on  horse- 
back, all  three  of  us,  over  the  mountain  and  down  the 
valley.  We  were  returning  toward  sunset,  sauntering 
along  the  road  down  the  side  of  the  hill. 

"  Philip,  stir  the  fire  a  little.  That  bottle  of  claret  is 
rather  cold,  it  seems  to  me,  or  I  am  a  little  chilly  my- 
self. Perhaps  it  is  the  recollection  of  that  day  that 
chills  me. 

"  I  had  made  up  my  mind,  if  opportunity  occurred,  to 
tell  her  that  day  all  that  I  had  thought  for  years.  I  had 


280  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

determined  to  know,  once  for  all,  if  she  would  love  me 
or  no. 

"  If  not,  I  would  go,  I  cared  not  where  ;  the  world  was 
broad  enough,  and  it  should  be  to  some  place  where  I 
should  never  see  her  face  again,  never  hear  her  voice 
again,  never  bow  down  and  worship  her  magnificent  beau- 
ty again.  I  would  go  to  Russia  and  offer  myself  to  the 
Czar,  or  to  Syria  and  join  the  Druses,  or  to  India,  China, 
any  where  to  fight.  All  my  notions  were  military,  I  re- 
member, and  all  my  ideas  were  of  war  and  death  on  the 
field. 

"  I  rode  by  her  side,  and  looked  up  at  her  occasionally, 
and  thought  she  was  looking  splendidly.  I  had  never 
seen  her  more  so.  Every  attitude  was  grace,  every  look 
was  life  and  spirit. 

"  Tom  clung  close  to  her.  One  would  have  thought 
he  was  watching  the  very  opportunity  I  was  after  myself. 
Now  he  rode  a  few  paces  forward,  and  as  I  was  catching 
my  breath  to  say  '  Sarah,'  he  would  rein  up  and  fall  back 
to  his  place,  and  I  would  make  some  flat  remark  that 
made  me  seem  like  a  fool  to  myself,  if  not  to  her. 

"  '  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Jerry  ?'  said  she,  at 
length. 

"  '  Jerry's  in  love,'  said  Tom. 

"  I  could  have  thrashed  him  on  the  spot. 

"  '  In  love  !  Jerry  in  love  !'  and  she  turned  her  large 
brown  eyes  toward  me. 

"  In  vain  I  sought  to  fathom  them,  and  arrive  at  some 
conclusion  whether  or  no  the  subject  interested  her  with 
special  force. 

"  The  eyes  remained  fixed,  till  I  blundered  out  the  old 
saw — 'Tom  judges  others  by  himself.' 

"  Then  the  eyes  turned  to  Tom,  and  he  pleaded  guilty 


THE  MAJOR'S  STORY.  281 

by  his  awkward  looks,  and  half-blushes,  and  averted  eyes, 
and  forced  laugh. 

"  '  By  Heaven  !'  thought  I, '  what  would  I  not  give  for 
Tom's  awkwardness  now !  The  scoundrel  is  winning  his 
way  by  it.' 

"  '  Jerry,  is  Tom  in  love  ?' 

"  The  na'ivete  of  the  question,  the  correctness  of  it,  the 
very  simplicity  of  the  thing  was  irresistible,  and  I  could 
not  repress  a  smile  that  grew  into  a  broad  laugh.  Tom 
joined  in  it,  and  we  made  the  woods  ring  with  our  mer- 
riment. 

"  '  I  say,  Tom,  isn't  that  your  whip  lying  back  yonder  in 
the  road  ?' 

" '  Confound  it,  yes ;  the  cord  has  broken  from  my 
wrist;'  and  he  rode  back  for  it. 

"  '  Jerry,  whom  does  Tom  love  ?'  said  she,  quickly,  turn- 
ing to  me. 

"  '  You,'  said  I,  bluntly. 

"  '  Why,  of  course ;  but  who  is  he  in  love  with,  I  mean  ?' 

"  It  was  a  curious  way  to  get  at  it.  Could  I  be  justi- 
fied ?  It  was  not  asking  what  I  had  intended,  but  it  was 
getting  at  it  in  another  way,  and  just  as  well,  perhaps.  It 
was,  at  all  events,  asking  Tom's  question  for  him,  and  it 
saved  me  the  embarrassment  of  putting  it  as  my  own.  I 
determined  this  in  an  instant. 

"  '  Sarah,  could  you  love  Tom  well  enough  to  marry 
him  ?' 

"  '  I !  Jerry ;  what  do  you  mean  ?' 

" '  Suppose  Tom  wants  you  to  be  his  wife,  will  you 
marry  him  ?' 

" '  I  don't  know — I  can't  tell — I  never  thought  of  such 
a  thing.  You  don't  think  he  has  any  such  idea,  do  you  ?' 

"That  was  my  answer.     It  was  enough  as  far  as  it 


282  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

went,  but  I  was  no  better  off  than  before.  She  did  not 
love  Tom,  or  she  would  never  have  answered  thus.  But 
did  she  love  me?  Would  she  marry  me?  Wouldn't  she 
receive  the  idea  in  just  the  same  way? 

"  I  looked  back.  Tom  was  on  the  ground,  had  picked 
up  his  whip,  and  had  one  foot  in  the  stirrup,  ready  to 
mount  again.  I  gulped  down  my  heart  that  was  up  in 
my  throat,  and  spoke  out — 

"  '  Sarah,  will  you  marry  me  ?' 

"  Philip,  she  turned  her  eyes  again  toward  me — those 
large  brown  eyes,  those  holy  eyes — and  blessed  me  with 
their  unutterably  glorious  gaze.  To  my  dying  hour  I 
shall  not  forget  that  gaze ;  to  all  eternity  it  will  remain 
in  my  soul.  She  looked  at  me  one  look ;  and  whether  it 
was  pity,  sorrow,  surprise,  or  love,  I  can  not  tell  you,  that 
filled  them  and  overflowed  toward  me  from  out  their  im- 
measurable depths;  but,  Philip,  it  was  the  last  light  of 
those  eyes  I  ever  saw — the  last,  the  last. 

"Is  there  any  thing  left  in  that  bottle?  Thank  you. 
Just  a  glassful.  You  will  not  take  any  ?  Then,  by  your 
leave,  I  will  finish  it.  My  story  is  nearly  ended,  and  I 
will  not  keep  you  up  much  longer. 

"  We  had  not  noticed,  so  absorbed  had  we  been  in  our 
pleasant  talk,  that  a  black  cloud  had  risen  in  the  west 
and  obscured  the  sun,  and  covered  the  entire  sky;  and 
even  the  sultry  air  had  not  called  our  attention  to  the 
coming  thunder-storm. 

"  As  she  looked  at  me,  even  as  she  fixed  her  eyes  on 
mine,  a  flash,  blinding  and  fierce,  fell  on  the  top  of  a 
pine-tree  by  the  road-side,  not  fifty  yards  from  us,  and 
the  crash  of  the  thunder  shook  the  foundations  of  the 
hills. 

•'  For   a   moment   all   was   dazzling,  burning,  blazing 


THE  MAJOR'S  STORY.  283 

light;  then  sight  was  gone,  and  a  momentary  darkness 
settled  on  our  eyes.  The  horses  crouched  to  the  ground 
in  terror,  and  Sarah  bowed  her  head  as  if  in  the  presence 
of  God. 

"  All  this  was  the  work  of  an  instant,  and  the  next, 
Tom's  horse  sprang  by  us  on  a  furious  gallop,  dragging 
Tom  by  the  stirrup.  He  had  been  in  the  act  of  mount- 
ing when  the  flash  came,  and  his  horse  swerved  and 
jumped  so  that  his  foot  caught,  and  he  was  dragged  with 
his  head  on  the  ground. 

"  There  was  a  point  in  the  road,  about  fifty  yards 
ahead,  where  it  divided  into  two.  The  one  was  the  car- 
riage-track, which  wound  down  the  mountain  by  easy  de- 
scents; the  other  was  a  foot-path,  which  was  a  short,  pre- 
cipitous cut  to  a  point  on  the  carriage  -  road  nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  below. 

"  Calling  to  Sarah  to  keep  back  and  wait,  I  drove  the 
spurs  into  my  horse,  and  went  down  the  steep  path. 
Looking  back,  I  saw  her  following,  her  horse  making  tre- 
mendous speed.  She  kept  the  carriage-road,  following 
on  after  Tom,  and  I  pressed  on,  thinking  to  intercept  his 
horse  below. 

"The  pace  was  terrible.  I  could  hear  them  thunder- 
ing down  the  track  above.  I  looked  up  and  caught  sight 
of  them  through  the  trees.  I  looked  down,  and  saw  a 
gully  before  me  full  eighteen  feet  wide  and  as  many  deep. 

"A  great  horse  was  that  black  horse  Caesar,  and  he 
took  the  gully  at  a  flying  leap  that  landed  us  far  over  it, 
and  a  moment  later  I  was  at  the  point  where  the  roads 
again  met,  but  only  in  time  to  see  the  other  two  horses 
go  by  at  a  furious  pace,  Sarah's  abreast  of  the  gray,  and 
she  reaching  her  hand  out,  bravely  trying  to  grasp  the 
flying  rein,  as  her  horse  went  leap  for  leap  with  him. 


284  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

"  To  ride  close  behind  them  was  worse  than  useless  in 
such  a  case.  It  would  but  serve  to  increase  their  speed; 
so  I  fell  back  a  dozen  rods  and  followed,  watching  the 
end. 

"  At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  the  river  ran,  broad  and 
deep,  spanned  by  the  bridge  at  the  narrowest  point.  To 
reach  the  bridge,  the  road  took  a  short  turn  up  stream, 
directly  on  the  bank. 

"  On  swept  the  gray  and  the  black  horse,  side  by  side, 
down  the  hill-side,  not  fifty  leaps  along  the  level  ground, 
and  then  came  the  turn. 

"  She  was  on  the  off-side.  At  the  sharp  turn  she 
pressed  ahead  a  half-length  and  reined  her  horse  across 
the  gray's  shoulder,  if  possible  to  turn  him  up  toward 
the  bridge. 

"  It  was  all  over  in  an  instant.  The  gray  was  the 
heavier  horse.  He  pressed  her  close;  the  black  horse 
yielded,  gave  way  toward  the  fence,  stumbled,  and  the 
fence,  a  light  rail,  broke  with  a  crash,  and  they  went  over, 
all  together  into  the  deep  black  stream. 

"  Still,  still  the  sound  of  that  crash  and  plunge  is  in 
my  ears.  Still  I  can  see  them  go  headlong  down  that 
bank  together  into  the  black  water ! 

"  I  never  knew  exactly  what  I  did  then.     When  I  was 
conscious  I  found  myself  swimming  around  in  a  circle, 
diving  occasionally  to  find  them,  but  in  vain.     The  gray 
horse  swam  ashore  and  stood  on  the  bank  by  my  black, 
with  distended  nostrils  and  trembling  limbs,  shaking  from 
head  to  foot  with   terror.     The  other  black  horse  was 
floating  down  the  surface  of  the  stream,  drowned.     His 
mistress  was  nowhere  visible,  and  Tom  was  gone  also. 
"  I  found  her  at  last. 
"  Yes,  she  was  dead ! 


THE  MAJOR'S  STORY.  285 

"  Restore  her  ?  No.  A  glance  at  her  face  showed 
how  vain  all  such  hope  was.  Never  was  human  face  so 
angelic.  She  was  already  one  of  the  saintly — one  of  the 
immortals — and  the  beauty  and  glory  of  her  new  life  had 
left  some  faint  likeness  of  itself  on  her  dead  form  and 
face. 

"  I  said  I  had  never  grown  a  day  older  since  that  time. 
You  know  now  why.  I  have  never  ceased  to  think  of 
her  as  on  that  day.  I  have  never  lost  the  blessing  of 
those  eyes  as  they  looked  on  me  in  the  forest  on  the 
mountain  road.  I  have  never  left  her,  never  grown  away 
from  her.  If,  in  the  resurrection,  we  are  to  resume  the 
bodies  most  exactly  fitted  to  represent  our  whole  lives ; 
if,  as  I  have  sometimes  thought,  we  shall  rise  in  the  forms 
we  wore  when  some  great  event  stamped  our  souls  for- 
ever, then  I  am  certain  that  I  shall  awake  in  form  and 
feature  as  I  was  that  day,  and  no  memorial  will  remain 
of  an  hour  of  my  life  after  her  burial. 

"We  buried  her  in  the  old  vault  close  by  the  house, 
among  the  oaks.  Beautiful  to  the  very  last. 

"  My  voice  is  broken.  I  can  not  talk  any  more.  You 
have  the  story.  That  is  the  whole  of  it.  God  bless  you, 
my  boy.  You  have  listened — patiently — to — my — talk. 

"  Good-night.  Go  to  bed.  I'll  stay  here  in  this  chair 
awhile.  I  don't — exactly — feel — like — sleeping — just 
yet." 

I  left  him  sitting  there ;  his  head  bowed  on  his  breast, 
his  eyes  closed,  his  breathing  heavy.  My  own  eyes  were 
misty. 

In  the  hall  I  found  John,  sitting  bolt  upright  in  a  large 
chair. 

"Why,  John,  I  thought  the  Major  sent  you  to  bed  long 
ago?" 


286  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

"Yes,  sir;  the  Major  always  sends  me  to  bed  at  the 
third  bottle,  sir,  and  I  always  doesn't  go.  He's  been  a 
telling  you  the  old  story,  now  hasn't  he,  sir  ?" 

"What  old  story,  John?" 

"  Why,  all  about  Miss  Lewis,  and  Mister  Tom,  and  the 
General  ?" 

"Yes." 

John  laid  his  long  black  finger  knowingly  up  by  the 
side  of  his  nose,  and  looked  at  me. 

"  Why,  John — you  don't  mean  to  say — eh  ?" 

"All  the  claret,  sir?" 

"  What !     Sarah  and  the  black  horse,  and — " 

"  All  claret,  sir." 

"  John,  my  man,  go  in  and  take  care  of  him.  He  is 
either  asleep  or  drunk.  Curious  that !  Why  didn't  I 
think  that  a  man  was  hardly  to  be  believed  after  the  sec- 
ond bottle,  and  perfectly  incredible  on  the  third.  By  Jove ! 
he  is  a  trump  at  a  story,  though." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  all  that  I  dreamed 
about  that  night. 


XIV. 

WHAT  FLIES  TO  CAST  ON  A  SUNDAY. 

I  HAVE  passed  a  great  deal  of  my  life  in  forest  sports, 
and  I  yield  to  no  man  in  knowing  how  to  enjoy  them. 
And  chiefest  among  the  enjoyments  of  the  forest  I  have 
found  always  the  serenity  of  Sabbath  rest.  It  conies  to 
the  wise  sportsman  with  all  the  blessings  that  it  brings  to 
the  weary  laborer  in  the  city,  and  with  a  thousand  others; 
and  he  is  unworthy  to  call  himself  a  wise  man  who  wets 
a  line  or  puts  cartridge  in  a  rifle  on  Sunday  in  the  forest. 

For  every  man,  whatsoever  be  his  disposition,  a  calm 
day  for  thoughtful  rest,  for  the  repose  of  peaceful  thinking, 
has  its  value.  The  Monday  is  fuller  of  enjoyment  for 
that  rest,  and  it  is  well,  for  one  who  doubts,  to  try  it. 

"  What  shall  I  do  all  day  ?"  do  you  ask  ?  Do,  man  ? 
Think !  It  won't  harm  you.  Even  if  you  have  gone  into 
the  forest  to  escape  from  thought,  you  will  find  that  Sun- 
day thinking  may  be  full  of  calm  and  of  balm.  Set  your- 
self at  work  to  remember  other  Sundays  in  your  life  and 
how  they  passed.  Mayhap  you  will  find  one,  in  all  your 
memory,  that  is  worth  remembering.  I  can  recall  a  hun- 
dred which  I  never  want  to  forget. 

I  remember  one,  only  last  summer,  that  is  pleasant  and 
profitable  to  recall.  We  were  at  the  Profile  House,  and, 
though  there  were  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  persons 
in  the  house,  we  had  no  clergyman  among  them.  This 


288  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

does  not  often  occur  in  the  Profile  House.  As  a  general 
rule  we  have  a  service  in  the  large  drawing-room  every 
Sunday  morning.  But  on  that  day  we  were  left  to  hear 
the  sermons  of  the  mountain  winds.  In  the  afternoon 

my  friend  S and  myself  inquired  about  the  church  at 

Franconia  village,  which  is  some  five  miles  distant  down 
the  mountain,  and  were  told  that  there  would  be  a  service 
at  five  o'clock.  So  we  took  Jack  and  the  buggy  and  went 
down.  (Did  I  ever  tell  you  of  Jack,  and  how  Dupont  and 
myself  bought  him  some  years  ago  in  Northern  New 
Hampshire,  and  have  made  all  sorts  of  sporting  expe- 
ditions with  him,  and  what  a  horse  of  horses  he  is  ?  If 
not,  perhaps  I  will  tell  you  all  that  some  day.)  As  we 
drove  out  of  the  mountain  gorge  and  the  forest  the  Sab- 
bath sunshine  was  making  the  earth  to  have  somewhat 
of  the  hues  of  paradise.  Far  away,  miles  on  miles  of 
land  slept  in  the  golden  light,  and  blue  hills  lifted  their 
foreheads  to  God.  Angels  might  love  earth  on  such  a 
day.  Doubtless  thus  the  land  appeared  to  the  Hebrew 
prophet  when  he  saw  it  from  Pisgah,  exceeding  beautiful ; 
and  I  sometimes  wonder  whether  that  vision  was  not 
given  him  but  as  the  prevision  of  that  which  he  was  to 
see,  when,  turning  away  his  longing  gaze  from  the  hills  of 
Judah,  he  suddenly  beheld  the  holier  hills  of  God  in  the 
land  which  to  him  was  no  longer  one  of  hope  or  promise. 
We  reached  the  little  Baptist  church  in  Franconia  in 
an  hour  or  less.  All  was  quiet  around  it,  and  we  feared 
there  was  some  mistake  in  our  information.  But  the 
sound  of  a  familiar  hymn  coming  from  the  open  door  re- 
assured us,  and  leaving  Jack  to  stand  without  a  halter 
(for  he  resents  the  indignity  of  being  fastened,  but  never 
moves  if  you  trust  him  to  stand),  we  entered  the  little 
building.  Instead  of  a  regular  service  we  found  a  prayer- 


SUNDAY   AT    FRANCONIA.  289 

meeting,  but  I  think  I  never  attended  a  religious  meeting 
of  any  kind  which  was  more  impressive.  A  few  men  and 
women,  the  farmers  of  the  country,  were  assembled,  and 
they  seemed  to  be  deeply  impressed  with  sorrow  that  their 
numbers  were  so  few,  when  there  were  enough  of  their 
neighbors  to  fill  the  church.  The  clergyman  sat  in  a 
chair  in  the  aisle,  and  conducted  the  service  by  an  occa- 
sional remark  and  repeated  requests  that  those  present 
would  pray.  And  pray  they  did,  simply,  fervently,  and  I 
doubt  not  effectually.  You  can  not  imagine  the  refresh- 
ing and  calming  character  of  such  an  afternoon  service  to 
one  who  has  been  for  a  long  time  past  among  less  peace- 
ful scenes.  As  I  sat  down,  I  looked  to  the  window  and 
saw  Mount  Lafayette  standing  up  still  and  solemn  in  the 
blue  sky,  like  a  giant  waiting  the  will  of  a  more  gigantic 
master,  and  as  they  sang  the  old  familiar  hymn,  I  began 
to  recall  where  I  was  just  a  year  ago  on  that  day.  In  the 
morning  I  heard  mass  in  an  ancient  church  where  kings 
and  kaisers  and  bishops  and  stout  old  knights  of  many 
old  centuries  were  at  rest,  heedless  of  the  music  of  the 
organ,  heedless  of  the  thunders  of  war  which  were  to  burst 
on  Germany  within  six  hours.  For  at  noon  that  day  came 
the  declaration  of  war,  and  in  the  afternoon  I  stood  in  a 
crowd  of  ten  thousand  Germans  arming  for  the  contest 
which  was  to  rebuild  the  throne  of  Charlemagne  and  over- 
throw the  throne  of  Napoleon.  What  a  wild  sweep  of 
the  tempest  of  human  wrath  did  Europe  feel  in  that  one 
short  year !  But  then  and  there,  in  Franconia,  what 
thought  had  the  men  and  women  of  thrones  or  their 
changes  ?  To  them  the  events  of  life  are  great  which  af- 
fect their  own  families,  and  the  world  is  of  small  impor- 
tance. They  should  live  near  to  God  who  live  in  quiet 
villages  or  farms  among  the  mountains.  And  some  of 

T 


2QO  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

them  do  live  very  near  to  heaven.  As  I  thought  this  the 
hymn  was  ended  and  a  momentary  silence  ensued,  and 
then  an  old  man  with  snowy  hair  rose  feebly  and  spoke 
in  a  broken  voice.  He  said  only  this  :  That  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  live  more  and  more  with  his  eye  fixed  on 
the  glory  to  come.  For,  said  he,  "  I  am  old  and  child- 
less ;  I  have  lived  eighty-five,  and  going  on  to  eighty- six 
years.  I  am  a  great  deal  alone  in  the  fields  at  my  work, 
and  I  think  all  the  time  of  the  glorious  home  which  I 
know  I  shall  go  to.  Oh  that  home  !  My  old  wife  said  to 
me  when  she  went  away  last  year, '  It  is  a  glorious  home 
we  will  have  together  there,  and  you  will  soon  come  to 
me,  and  we  shall  be  together  forever !' "  And  the  old 
man's  voice  broke  down  entirely  when  he  came  to  speak 
of  this  his  great  loss,  but  even  as  his  voice  faltered  I  could 
see  a  light  in  his  old  eye  that  told  me  he  saw,  right 
through  the  window  of  the  little  church,  over  the  lofty 
summit  of  Lafayette,  in  the  blue  distance  of  that  sky,  the 
glory  of  which  he  had  spoken,  and  the  home  in  which  she 
had  promised  to  wait  for  him.  Thank  God  they  will  be 
young  again  together  there,  and  neither  the  simple  imag- 
ination of  the  Franconia  farmer  nor  the  dweller  all  his  life 
in  palaces  can  begin  to  picture  the  peace  which  will  there 
be  after  the  storm  of  this  life.  And  then,  when  the  old 
man  ceased  to  speak  and  there  was  silence  for  a  moment 
in  the  little  assembly,  suddenly  and  very  sweetly  a  wom- 
an's voice,  clear  and  pure  and  strong,  floated  over  our 
heads  as  she  sang  the  refrain,  "  When  I've  been  there  ten 
thousand  years."  I  looked  up  and  saw  her  face — that  of 
a  Franconia  girl,  or  young  wife — clear-cut  features,  fair 
complexion,  with  a  speaking  eye  now  fixed  in  an  upward 
look  as  she  sang.  She  would  be  astonished  doubtless  if 
she  knew  the  fancy  that  possessed  me  at  that  moment, 


THE   LITTLE   CHURCH.  29 1 

but  I  will  tell  what  it  was.  Do  you  remember — per- 
haps you  don't,  for  I  have  forgotten  myself — who  painted 
that  St.  Cecilia  seated  at  the  organ,  which  I  used  to  ad- 
mire so  much  in  Florence,  but  her  face  was  the  very 
face  of  that  picture,  and  I  would  have  given  much  for  a 
photograph  of  it  that  instant  as  she  looked  up  and 
sang.  And  then  all  the  people  sang,  as  I  have  not  heard 
for  years,  and  while  they  sang  the  old  sad  years  went 
over  me  in  a  deep  strong  wave,  and  I  was  in  the  company 
of  the  dear  ones  of  old  times,  never  to  come  back  again — 
never — never.  How  many  are  gone  to  God  with  whom 
we  used  to  sing  hymns  in  the  Sabbath  evenings !  And 
so  it  has  come  to  pass  that  hymns  which  we  then  loved 
as  full  of  hope  and  cheer  are  now  inexpressibly  sad,  and 
we  almost  weep  to  hear  them. 

Then  one  and  another  and  another  of  the  little  assem- 
bly prayed,  and  we  came  out  into  the  last  of  the  sunlight, 
and  the  land  was  lying  blessed  by  it,  beautiful  beyond  de- 
scription. And  then  we  drove  up  the  mountains,  looking 
all  the  while  up  to  their  lofty  tops  as  we  ascended,  and  the 
light  became  purple  and  gold  on  the  hills,  like  the  robes 
of  Solomon. 

And  I  looked  at  Lafayette  and  saw  the  gorge  of  the 
White  Cross,  down  which  the  water  in  summer  pours  into 
the  brook  which  joins  the  outlet  of  Echo  Lake,  and  this 
brook  in  the  gorge  looked  like  a  mountain  path  going 
right  up  to  the  summit.  All  the  way  I  had  my  eyes  on 
that  path,  and  followed  up  it  the  slow  footsteps  of  one 
who  was  ascending  the  hill  of  life,  and  who  at  last  reached 
the  top  and  went  on  into  the  blue  above. 

The  forest  opened  before  us  as  we  ascended,  and  at 
length  we  entered  the  gloom.  But  the  last  rays  of  the 
sun  were  shining  through  the  trees,  and  here  and  there  a 


2Q2  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

tall  trunk  was  lit  like  a  great  tree  of  gold.  The  squirrels 
were  out  for  a  last  run  before  night,  and  occasionally 
along  the  road  a  chipmunk  was  sitting  up  wiping  his 
whiskers  with  his  forepaws,  undisturbed  by  our  approach, 
nor  moving  as  we  passed  within  a  few  feet  of  him.  The 
voices  of  the  birds  filled  the  woods.  I  don't  know  what 
bird  it  is,  but  there  is  one  who  utters  only  one  long,  clear, 
musical  whistle,  broken  by  one  or  two  pauses.  So  we 

drove  on  through  the  forest,  and and  myself  talked 

of  drives  we  took  together  the  year  previous  in  Switzer- 
land and  Germany,  and  how  together  we  saw  the  fires  of 
hell  surrounding  the  old  cathedral  of  Strasbourg,  and 
awoke  in  the  night  to  hear  the  thunder  of  the  bombard- 
ment ;  and  so  at  last  we  came  out  of  the  woods  at  Echo 
Lake,  and  John,  the  Indian,  stopped  us  to  tell  me  of  a 
large  trout  that  had  been  breaking  near  the  boat-house, 
as  they  generally  do  of  a  Sunday,  and  then  we  drove  on  to 
the  house,  and  were  suddenly  in  the  crowd  of  fashion  and 
splendor  at  the  Profile. 

That  was  a  Sunday  worth  remembering,  according  to 
my  notion.  Take  my  advice  and  let  the  trout  alone  on  a 
Sunday,  and  become  fishers  of  thought,  drawing  bright 
and  good  things  out  of  the  depths  of  memory.  They  will 
rise  to  your  cast  with  great  freedom,  and  take  hold  strong- 
ly, and  it  is  a  pleasure  to  land  them,  and  once  secured 
they  become  an  enjoyable  possession  forever. 

I  venture  another  bit  of  advice,  based  on  some  experi- 
ence as  angler  and  traveler.  I  commend  this  rule  for  the 
Sunday  :  To  worship  God  with  his  people,  if  there  be  ac- 
cessible to  you  any  where  a  church  calling  itself  Chris- 
tian, of  whatever  denomination.  It  is  a  good  plan,  and 
will  be  found  remunerative.  I  have  knelt  on  many  a 
Sunday  morning  with  Greeks,  with  Copts,  with  Armenians, 


MONTE   CASINO.  293 

with  Romans,  and  I  can't  say  that  it  ever  interfered  with 
the  sense  of  devotion,  the  act  of  adoration,  the  confidence 
in  the  presence  of  the  Divine  Master,  that  I  was  kneeling 
among  those  who  did  not  believe  precisely  as  I  did. 
When  the  Ethiopian  asked  Philip  what  hindered  that  he 
should  be  accepted  in  the  visible  church  by  baptism, 
Philip  told  him  it  was  a  question  of  belief,  and  he  replied, 
"  I  believe  that  Jesus  Christ  is  the  Son  of  God,"  and  on 
the  instant  Philip  stopped  the  chariot,  baptized  him,  and 
disappeared.  It's  a  short  and  mighty  story  that,  which 
polemic  theologians  in  all  the  churches  would  do  well  to 
study.  Enough  for  me,  an  ignorant  layman,  to  be  con- 
tent to  worship  with  those  who  believe  as  much  as  the 
Ethiopian  believed,  call  themselves  or  be  called  by  what 
name  they  may. 

The  memory  of  Sundays  gone  is  the  angler's  best  Sun- 
day company  when  he  is  alone  in  the  forest.  Let  me  re- 
call another  such  memory. 

Away  up  in  the  heart  of  Italy,  on  the  interior  road  from 
Naples  to  Rome,  among  hills  and  valleys  that  are  beauti- 
ful in  their  vine-clad  splendor,  rises  a  strange  sugar-loaf 
hill  four  hundred  feet  or  so  high,  known  to  fame  as  Monte 
Casino.  Its  summit  is  covered  with  a  vast  mass  of  build- 
ings, presenting  to  the  eye  from  below  the  appearance  of 
a  small  fortified  city.  The  approach  to  it  is  by  a  road 
which  winds  in  a  zigzag  line  up  the  almost  perpendicular 
side  of  the  hill,  making  a  dozen  or  twenty  sharp  angles, 
back  and  forth,  before  it  ends  in  the  low  archway  through 
the  massive  walls  which  admits  one  who  has  accomplished 
the  difficult  ascent  into  the  great  monastery  of  the  Bene- 
dictines. For  this  is  the  possession  of  that  wealthy  and 
once  powerful  order  of  monks,  and  is  to  this  day  the  most 
splendid  of  the  religious  houses  of  Europe. 


294  T    GO    A -FISHING. 

When  I  was  last  in  Italy  we  passed  through  the  valley 
by  rail,  and  saw  the  great  pile  of  the  monastery  at  a  dis- 
tance. Years  ago,  when  there  were  no  rails  in  Italy,  I 
drove  one  Saturday  night  into  the  little  village  of  San 
Germano,  where  was  a  miserable  inn,  but  in  which  Franz, 
my  German  servant,  made  us  comfortable.  For  Franz 
was  valet,  cook,  purveyor,  a  host  in  himself,  who,  though 
but  a  servant,  looked  down  on  couriers,  and  was  worth 
any  dozen  of  them  condensed  into  one. 

On  Sunday  morning,  though  a  tempest  was  blowing,  I 
climbed  the  hill  to  the  monastery  in  time  for  the  early 
mass.  And  after  it  was  over  I  remained  alone  in  the 
gorgeous  chapel,  occupied  more  with  recalling  the  mighty 
faith  of  the  great  old  Benedictines  than  with  looking  at 
the  splendor  which  surrounded  me. 

I  have  seen  a  great  many  fine  buildings,  many  grand 
ruins,  but  I  know  of  no  place  where  I  was  more  impressed 
with  the  grandeur  of  every  thing  than  in  this  old  pile. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  of  my  respect  for  the  order  whose 
wealth  had  constructed  it ;  for  among  the  folios  on  my 
library  shelves  there  is  no  series  of  volumes  that  have 
given  me  more  employment  and  enjoyment  than  those 
grand  old  Acta,  the  Deeds  of  the  Order  of  St.  Benedict. 

Let  me  remind  you,  if  you  have  perchance  forgotten  it, 
of  the  majesty  of  that  great  order.  Founded  in  early 
times  by  the  distinguished  priest  whose  name  it  bears,  it 
enrolled  in  its  ranks  the  most  illustrious  men  of  a  thou- 
sand years.  They  were  the  instructors  of  all  the  youth 
for  centuries.  They  preserved  for  us  all  the  great  treas- 
ures of  ancient  classics  by  their  diligent  and  laborious 
copying.  From  them  sprang  the  Cistercians,  the  Carthu- 
sians, the  Monks  of  St.  Bernard,  the  Trappists,  and  a 
dozen  other  orders,  all  branches  of  the  order  of  St.  Bene- 


BENEDICTINES.  295 

diet.  More  than  twenty  popes,  over  fifteen  thousand  bish- 
ops, and  nearly  fifty  thousand  of  the  canonized  saints  of 
the  Roman  Church,  including  the  great  St.  Bernard,  and 
many  like  him,  came  from  the  Benedictines. 

From  this  brief  summary  of  their  history,  you  may  be- 
lieve me  when  I  say  that  they  have  in  former  years 
swayed  the  destinies  of  the  world,  the  men  who  began  life 
in  these  quiet  cells,  or  walking  this  ancient  court.  Some 
have  worn  the  coat  of  mail  under  the  monk's  gown,  and 
swinging  swords  with  strong  right  arms  have  done  great 
service  for  the  Cross  and  Church  on  hard-fought  fields. 
Some  have  gone  on  long  travel  into  distant  lands,  un- 
armed, without  shoes  or  scrip,  valiantly  bearing  the  sacred 
symbol  into  heathen  countries,  with  no  protection  but  its 
own  mission  of  peace  and  love.  They  succored  the  poor, 
they  supported  the  fainting,  they  shrived  the  dying.  They 
received  princes  in  their  arms  at  birth,  and  baptized  them 
for  the  struggles  of  life ;  they  leaned  above  dying  old 
monarchs,  and  anointed  them  for  the  slumber  of  universal 
equality.  They  were  popes,  cardinals,  bishops,  priests, 
monks,  and  martyrs.  There  was  no  land  into  which  they 
did  not  penetrate,  no  nation  whose  language  they  did  not 
speak,  no  palace  too  magnificent  to  receive  them,  no  hut 
so  lowly  that  they  shrank  from  entering  it  with  the  mis- 
sion of  Christ. 

I  honor  the  history  of  devoted  men  in  every  church ; 
and  he  is  worse  than  a  heathen  who  refuses  to  recognize 
that  which  is  Christ-like  in  humanity,  whether  under  a 
Dominican  cowl,  the  gown  of  a  Lutheran,  or  the  bonnet 
of  a  Covenanter. 

The  monastery  is  vast  in  extent,  but  now  peopled  with 
only  thirty  or  forty  monks.  It  has  been  spared  by  the 
Italian  government,  which  has  broken  up  other  monas- 


296  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

teries  in  Italy,  its  age  and  historical  importance  having 
preserved  it  from  secularization.  The  chapel  or  church 
is  without  exception  the  most  gorgeous  interior  in  Europe 
or  the  world.  I  am  astonished  that  it  has  escaped  the 
eyes  of  so  many  travelers.  The  surface  of  all  the  walls, 
columns,  and  in  short  the  entire  interior,  except  the  pave- 
ment, is  one  mass  of  unbroken  Florentine  mosaic.  The 
Sicilian  jaspers,  carnelians,  and  agates  are  distributed  with 
splendid  effect.  The  columns  supporting  the  architrave 
are  of  white  marble,  but  there  is  no  white  marble  visible, 
except  a  wreath  of  roses  ascending  spirally,  which  is  carved 
in  relief.  All  the  rest  of  the  column  is  covered  with  jas- 
per and  splendid  stones  in  exquisite  mosaic,  around  which 
the  white  wreath  seems  to  be  entwined. 

As  I  stood  there  a  Benedictine  brother  approached  me, 
and,  when  he  found  that  I  had  some  interest  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  order  as  well  as  in  the  building,  entered  into 
conversation,  and  after  a  while  said,  "  I  will  send  for  the 
organist,  and  we  will  have  some  music." 

The  organ  ranks  with  those  at  Palermo  and  Haarlem. 
It  is  in  Italy  placed  second  in  the  world,  that  at  Palermo 
being  first.  I  sat  down  on  a  pedestal  of  one  of  the  col- 
umns— there  was  no  other  seat — and  Fra  Bartolomeq  (not 
he  of  ancient  fame  with  the  pencil,  but  certainly  a  rival 
in  producing  all  the  effects  of  beauty  from  sound  that  his 
great  namesake  did  for  the  sight)  came  from  a  side-door, 
bowed  slightly,  with  a  sad  kind  of  smile  on  his  pale  face, 
and  disappeared  behind  the  high  altar  where  stood  the 
organ.  All  was  now  silent  except  the  roar  of  a  mighty 
wind  that  was  sweeping  over  the  mountain-top.  I  sat  and 
listened,  and  a  solemn  awe  stole  over  me  as  I  began  to 
remember  the  knees  that  had  pressed  this  pavement,  the 
forms  that  had  moved  here  in  gown  and  cowl,  all  carried 


THE    GREAT   ORGAN.  297 

away  on  the  winds  of  century  after  century.  Then  stole 
out  on  the  air  a  low,  sad,  thrilling  note  which  struggled 
at  first  as  if  it  was  an  unearthly  voice  endeavoring  to 
catch  the  key-note  of  our  suffering  nature.  It  sobbed, 
and  broke,  and  wailed  mournfully  a  little  while,  and  then 
it  rose  and  swelled,  until  it  caught  the  voice  of  the  wind 
that  was  thundering  over  the  mountain-top,  and  like  a 
cataract  let  loose  it  sprang  into  unison  with  the  tempest. 
Then  the  story  began.  It  was  not  Fra  Bartolomeo  that 
did  it,  at  least  that  thought  never  entered  my  mind ;  it 
was  the  spirit  of  the  splendid  instrument,  shut  up  I  know 
not  how  many  years  in  the  old  chapel,  that  now  began  to 
recite  the  story  of  the  monks  of  St.  Benedict.  One  died 
in  prison,  and  the  clanging  doors  made  discord  with  his 
miserere;  one  perished  on  the  battle-field,  and  the  rush  of 
armed  hosts,  the  tread  of  horses,  fierce  battle-cries,  chok- 
ing death-gasps  and  shrieks  of  agony  mingled  with  the 
solemn  mine  dimittis.  One  sank  in  the  ocean,  and  the 
waves  dashed  over  rocks  as  the  story  of  his  death  was  re- 
cited. One  died  in  the  arms  of  his  mother,  and  her 
voice,  intensely  human  and  womanly,  wailed  over  him. 
Then  the  history  rose  to  greater  themes,  as  men  measure 
greatness,  and  I  heard  of  kings  and  priests  in  many  lands 
who  had  honored  the  order,  and  their  national  hymns, 
one  after  another,  shook  the  walls  of  the  gorgeous  church. 
I  can  give  no  idea  of  the  power  of  this  instrument. 
Every  ordinary  wind  and  stringed  instrument  was  imi- 
tated with  perfection ;  and  the  human  voice,  in  solo  or  in 
chorus,  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  the  organ.  For  just  one 
hour  I  sat  in  silence,  awed,  astonished,  nay,  astounded, 
by  a  power  I  had  never  dreamed  of  before.  Then  it 
ceased,  and  in  the  silence  Fra  Bartolomeo  glided  noise- 
lessly across  the  church,  pale,  slender,  with  the  same  sad 


2Qo  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

smile  on  his  face  as  he  bowed  and  disappeared  toward 
the  cloisters. 

Many  a  time,  in  the  northern  forests,  of  a  Sunday  even- 
ing when  the  wind  is  high  among  the  pines,  I  hear  the 
sound  of  the  organ  at  Monte  Casino. 

As  I  write  that  sentence  it  occurs  to  me  that  some 
reader,  not  familiar  with  forest  life,  may  regard  it  as  a 
pure  imagination  when  one  says  that  the  sound  of  the 
wind  is  like  distant  music.  But  it  is  no  imagination.  In 
our  city  lives  we  are,  without  knowing  it,  in  a  constant 
noise.  There  is  no  moment  of  day  or  night  in  New  York 
when  the  air  is  not  vibrating  with  sound.  The  innumer- 
able occupations  of  men,  the  wheels  on  pavements,  the 
very  voices  of  many  thousands  in  ordinary  conversation, 
keep  up  a  constant  disturbance  of  the  atmosphere,  so  that 
what  we  call  silence  in  the  city,  or  stillness,  is  only  com- 
parative. A  good  illustration  of  this  is  found  when  one 
goes  out  of  town  by  rail,  carrying  with  him  the  city  noise 
in  the  roar  of  the  train,  until  he  is  set  down  at  a  country 
station,  and  the  engine  drags  away  the  last  of  the  sounds 
of  the  town,  leaving  him  on  the  platform  in  the  country 
stillness.  The  ear  is  at  rest  for  the  first  time  in  weeks  or 
months,  and  the  silence  is  wonderful. 

For  this  reason  in  town  we  do  not  often  notice  the  pe- 
culiar tones  of  the  wind,  although  sometimes  they  are  re- 
markable enough  as  the  air  is  broken  into  vibrations  by 
chimneys  and  the  corners  of  window-casings.  The  voices 
of  the  wind  are  so  various  in  the  forest  that,  notwithstand- 
ing all  which  has  been  written  of  them,  I  am  persuaded 
the  thousandth  part  has  not  been  told  of  their  wonderful 
power.  ALolian  notes  are  the  subject  of  innumerable 
poems,  and  no  one  has  written  of  the  country  without 
reference  to  them.  But  it  is  not  alone  in  melody  and 


THE   SOUND   OF    BELLS.  299 

music  that  the  wind  gives  its  utterances.  There  is  scarce- 
ly a  sound  that  ear  of  man  has  heard  which  is  not  im- 
itated in  the  forest,  by  day  or  by  night.  The  thunder  of 
waterfalls,  the  roar  of  cars  over  city  pavements,  the  clatter 
of  machinery,  the  rattling  fire  of  distant  musketry,  the 
tramp  of  men  on  the  march,  singly,  in  squads,  in  masses, 
the  shouts  of  mobs,  the  huzzas  of  political  meetings,  the 
low  hum  of  conversation,  the  tones  of  single  voices  speak- 
ing slowly,  the  prattle  of  children,  the  wails  of  sickness 
and  suffering,  the  far-off  shout  of  a  well-known  voice — 
these  are  but  a  few  of  the  innumerable  sounds  which  are 
to  be  heard  in  the  forest  when  the  wind  rises  or  falls. 

Every  one  has  heard  of  the  strange  sound  which  travel- 
ers on  the  Eastern  deserts  report,  the  sound  of  church- 
bells  pealing  over  the  lonesome  sands.  I  heard  that 
sound  once  on  the  Arabian  desert,  and  have  described  it 
elsewhere.  I  heard  it  once  in  an  American  forest.  I 
awoke  at  midnight  from  deep  sleep  and  lay  awake  listen- 
ing to  the  wind,  when  suddenly  the  bells  began  to  sound. 
It  was  as  if  six  or  eight  heavy  bells  were  ringing  at  a  dis- 
tance, precisely  as  the  fire-bells  of  New  York  sometimes 
sound  to  one  on  a  vessel  in  the  lower  bay.  Sleeping  by 
my  side  was  one  who  had  heard  the  same  sound  with  me 
on  the  desert.  I  heard  it  for  full  ten  minutes,  then  sat 
up  to  listen,  and  my  movement  woke  the  sleeper. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Nothing.     Only  listen  and  tell  me  what  you  hear." 

"  I  hear  the  bells  !" 

Clearly  there  was  no  mistake  of  imagination  about  it, 
and  we  heard  them  for  some  minutes  longer,  until  they 
died  away  in  the  louder  rush  of  the  wind  among  the 
branches  of  the  trees  that  were  close  above  us. 

The  vibrations  of  the  air  which  produce  certain  sounds 


300  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

may  be  excited  by  various  causes,  and  it  is  not  strange 
that  the  wind,  finding  its  way  over  rocks  and  sand-hills  or 
among  the  myriad  leaves  and  branches  of  a  forest,  should 
fall  occasionally  into  vibrations  such  as  bells  or  human 
voices  excite.  Hence  it  is  not  mere  imagination  which 
hears  familiar  tones  in  the  wind. 


XV. 

IN  NORTHERN  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

TROUT  abound  in  the  northern  portions  of  the  Middle 
States  and  throughout  New  England,  but  of  course  are 
disappearing  rapidly  from  the  more  accessible  waters. 
It  is  quite  out  of  the  question  to  answer  that  often-re- 
peated inquiry  of  the  lover  of  angling  whom  business 
keeps  in  town,  "Where  can  I  find  trout-fishing  without 
going  far  away  ?" 

There  are  streams  within  a  half -day's  ride  of  New 
York  in  which  there  are  still  many  trout,  and  where  an- 
gling is  free  to  all.  But  as  the  habits  of  the  trout  are 
somewhat  uncertain,  it  is  by  no  means  a  sure  thing  to  go 
for  a  single  day  to  such  a  stream  with  the  anticipation 
of  much  sport. 

The  northern  parts  of  New  Hampshire  and  Maine, 
and  the  eastern  parts  of  Canada,  with  New  Brunswick 
and  Nova  Scotia,  afford  doubtless  the  best  trout-fishing 
in  America  or  in  the  world,  with  perhaps  the  exception 
of  our  Rocky  Mountain  and  other  far-western  regions, 
where  trout  abound  as  they  did  a  few  years  ago  in  Maine. 
It  has  been  elsewhere  stated  in  this  volume  that  the 
brook  trout  grows  to  a  much  larger  size  in  the  waters  of 
Maine  than  any  where  else,  so  far  as  our  present  knowl- 
edge extends.  In  Rangely  Lake  and  the  waters  flowing 
from  it  we  have  taken  many  speckled  trout  weighing 


302  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

eight  and  nine  pounds.  I  have  entire  confidence  in  the 
evidence  afforded  me  there  some  years  ago,  by  lumber- 
men whom  I  knew,  that  two  brook  trout  have  been  taken 
near  Indian  Rock  weighing  eleven  pounds  each.  Read- 
ers of  newspapers  must  bear  in  mind  when  they  meet 
with  stories  of  large  trout,  that  there  are  several  varieties 
of  the  family,  and  that  the  lake  trout  grows  to  an  enor- 
mous size  in  some  waters.  But  it  is  safe  to  believe  for 
the  present  that  no  one  has  seen  a  brook  trout,  or  speck- 
led trout  (with  red  and  gold  spots),  the  Salmo  fontinalis  of 
the  books,  exceeding  the  weight  of  those  taken  in  Maine, 
in  the  head  waters  of  the  Androscoggin.  This  chain  of 
lakes,  Rangely,  Moosetocmaguntic,  or  Mooseluckmagun- 
tic,  Wellokenebacook,  Mollichunkamunk,  Richardson  (dif- 
ferent names  which  have  been  given  sometimes  to  the 
same  lake,  and  sometimes  to  parts  of  a  lake),  pours  a 
strong  river  into  Umbagog,  and  from  this  flows  the  An- 
droscoggin. The  Magalloway  River  comes  down  from 
the  north  and  joins  the  Androscoggin  two  miles  below 
Umbagog.  All  the  smaller  lakes  and  streams  which 
flow  into  these  waters  abound  in  trout.  The  Maine  wa- 
ters have  been  visited  of  late  by  so  many  anglers,  and  so 
much  has  been  written  about  them,  that  they  are  well 
known.  Not  so  the  Magalloway  waters.  But  the  time 
is  not  far  distant  when  all  this  country  will  be  familiar  to 
lovers  of  the  angle,  and  after  them  will  come  the  lovers  of 
scenery,  and  the  lonesome  places  will  be  peopled,  at  least 
in  the  summer  season. 

We  made  up  a  party  at  the  Profile  House  to  drive 
through  Northern  New  Hampshire. 

The  Mountain  Ranger  is  a  coach  of  coaches.  It  has 
four  seats  inside,  together  capable  of  holding  twelve  per- 
sons, and  two  seats  in  front  by  the  driver.  Thus  it  will 


ABOUT  BAGGAGE.  303 

carry  ordinarily  fourteen  persons,  with  their  baggage,  and 
the  baggage  customary  among  White  Mountain  travelers 
is  heavier  than  it  ought  to  be.  Our  party  consisted  of 
five  gentlemen  with  their  wives,  and  our  baggage  was 
light.  We  were  therefore  very  comfortable  in  this  long 
coach  with  six  horses.  Before  we  left  the  Profile  House 
we  made  out  a  list  of  necessaries  of  life,  without  which 
civilized  ladies  would  inevitably  perish,  and  for  these  we 
sent  to  New  York. 

Every  man  should  understand  a  rule  of  travel  as  well 
as  of  going  a-fishing,  which  is,  that  if  ladies  are  of  the 
party  (and  they  may  almost  always  be),  they  must  be 
made  comfortable.  Gentlemen  can  "  rough  it,"  but  ladies 
should  never  be  allowed  to  rough  it  if  there  are  means 
of  transportation. 

There  is  nothing  more  absurd  and  unreasonable  than 
the  growling  which  some  men  make  about  the  quantity 
of  ladies'  baggage.  When  you  have  ladies  in  charge, 
take  every  luxury  that  they  may  require.  It  is  as  easy 
to  take  care  of  ten  trunks  as  two,  and  the  secret  of  pleas- 
ant travel  is  to  avoid  as  far  as  possible  all  that  can  be 
called  "  roughing  it,"  by  having  in  the  luggage  every  pos- 
sible comfort.  In  this  way  invalid  ladies  may  travel 
with  ease  and  benefit.  Many  travelers  of  both  sexes  suf- 
fer in  health  from  exposures  which  would  have  been 
wholly  unnecessary  had  they  taken  a  proper  amount  of 
luggage.  Men  do  not  handle  their  own  trunks  in  this 
age  of  the  world,  and  there  are  always  and  every  where 
plenty  of  porters  glad  to  handle  them.  Are  you  crossing 
the  desert  with  your  wife  ?  Add  an  extra  camel  or  two  to 
your  train,  and  carry  trunks  full  of  articles  that  you  may 
just  by  a  bare  possibility  find  convenient.  Is  economy 
an  object  with  you  ?  Then  do  not  take  a  lady  where  she 


304  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

must  be  without  comforts,  unless  she  is  thoroughly  strong, 
and  able  to  endure  as  much  as  yourself.  But  don't  growl 
about  luggage.  It  is  one  of  the  most  stupid  fashions  of 
the  times.  Carry  your  household  goods  and  gods  with 
you  if  you  want  them,  and  pay  for  them  like  a  man. 

We  did  not  know  that  we  should  have  any  rough  times, 
and,  as  it  proved,  we  did  not  have  any ;  but  we  enjoyed 
ourselves  none  the  less  for  the  provisions  ordered  in  New 
York,  and,  thanks  to  the  express  system,  we  found  them 
at  Littleton  awaiting  us  when  we  met  there.  I  had  gone 
to  Littleton  on  Tuesday,  having  an  engagement  to  fish  a 
certain  pond  fifteen  miles  from  that  place,  which  I  fulfilled, 
taking  no  fish,  on  Wednesday.  On  Thursday  morning  the 
Mountain  Ranger  was  at  the  door,  the  baggage  and  stores 
were  loaded,  and  at  ten  o'clock  we  were  off  for  the  un- 
known regions  of  the  North.  From  Littleton  to  Lancas- 
ter was  a  short  day's  ride.  We  discovered  nothing  re- 
markable along  the  road  except  a  hotel,  beautifully  situ- 
ated on  the  bank  of  the  Connecticut  at  Dalton.  It  looked 
like  a  pleasant  and  quiet  place  to  do  summer  loitering. 
They  said  pickerel  fishing  was  good  thereabouts,  but  trout 
were  not  common.  There  was  a  large  hotel  in  Lancas- 
ter, which  is  a  pleasant  village.  We  strolled  up  the  bank 
of  Israel's  River  in  the  evening,  and  made  a  few  casts 
above  and  below  the  paper-mill  dam.  Chubs  rose  to  the 
fly,  but  no  trout.  Evening  came  down  very  placidly  in 
this  delicious  valley.  The  Baron  was  out  sketching  till 
dark,  and  found  other  artists  in  fields  and  forests  around. 
They  frequent  the  place,  and  there  is  no  better  evidence 
of  its  beauty  of  situation.  Since  the  days  of  which  I 
write  the  rail  has  been  extended  from  Littleton,  through 
Lancaster,  to  Northumberland.  In  the  morning  we  drove 
on  to  Northumberland  station,  on  the  Grand  Trunk  Rail- 


COLEBROOK.  305 

way,  and,  as  our  road  thence  lay  for  twelve  miles  parallel 
to  the  rails,  we  relieved  the  horses  by  taking  a  convenient 
train  just  then  coming  along,  and  waited  for  the  Mount- 
ain Ranger  again  at  North  Stratford  station.  Some  fish- 
ermen had  been  drawing  a  seine  in  the  Connecticut  just 
as  we  arrived,  and  we  saw  the  product  of  the  haul.  It 
was  a  few  bushels  of  fish  that  in  my  boy  days  we  used  to 
call  wind -fish,  and  some  large  suckers.  Nothing  else. 
But  I  have  taken  large  trout  in  the  Connecticut  at  this 
spot.  I  recall  one  evening  when  I  was  detained  there, 
and  went  over  to  the  Vermont  side  of  the  river  with  a  fly- 
rod,  and  killed  four  noble  fish  at  the  mouth  of  a  mill- 
stream  that  pours  into  the  Connecticut  below  the  bridge. 
A  little  of  the  old  camp  experience  came  into  play  here, 
and  Dupont  and  myself  distinguished  ourselves  by  get- 
ting dinner  ready.  On  the  whole  it  was  a  success,  and 
the  coffee  was  superb.  The  evening  ride  of  thirteen  miles 
to  Colebrook  was  fine.  The  roads  in  this  part  of  the 
country  are  excellent,  and  the  scenery  varied  and  always 
beautiful.  There  are  two  Monadnocks  in  New  England. 
I  don't  know  which  is  the  original,  but  that  one  which 
looks  down  on  Colebrook  is  a  fine  old  hill,  and  viewed 
from  the  front  of  the  inn  on  a  Sunday  evening,  when  one 
bright  star  rests  like  a  beacon  on  its  summit,  it  is  very 
grand. 

We  were  to  rest  here  over  Saturday  and  Sunday,  for, 
as  we  were  going  into  unknown  regions,  it  was  not  safe 
to  arrive  on  Saturday  night  with  ladies  on  the  east  side 
of  Dixville  Notch,  where  it  was  quite  uncertain  whether 

we  should  find  even  a  house.     St.  A and  the  Baron 

agreed  to  drive  through  the  Notch  on  Saturday  and  ex- 
plore, and  Dupont  and  I  began  to  inquire  about  the  fish- 
ing. We  had  a  dozen  streams  and  lakes  placed  at  our 

U 


306  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

service.  But  we  had  heard  mention  of  Diamond  Pond, 
and  our  longings  were  thitherward.  It  was  variously 
stated  at  ten  to  fifteen  miles'  distance,  by  a  road  which 
led  through  the  wildest  section  of  the  country.  So  we 
arranged  for  horses  and  a  guide,  and  began  in  the  even- 
ing to  unpack  our  fishing  tackle.  It  was  amusing  to  see 
the  expressions  of  countenance,  and  hear  the  brief  and 
sententious  remarks  made  in  the  bar-room  when  our  light 
Norris  rods  were  brought  to  the  view  of  the  Colebrook 
fishermen.  For  they  were  anglers,  and  not  to  be  despised 
let  me  tell  you.  What  American  angler,  however  skilled 
in  the  later  years  of  his  life,  dare  think  without  respect  of 
the  up-country  fisher  who  taught  him  his  first  cast  with 
an  ash  pole  and  a  brown  cock's  hackle  ?  There  is  much 
written  and  much  said  about  the  superiority,  now  of  fine 
tackle,  now  of  birch  and  hemp.  The  accomplished  angler, 
with  slender  rod,  multiplying  reel,  silk  line,  and  thorough- 
ly assorted  book  of  flies,  is  sometimes  indignant  at  the 
remark  that  a  barefooted  boy  with  pole  and  line  and 
worm  can  catch  more  trout  than  he.  It  is  sometimes 
true.  Along  a  stream  where  trout  are  plenty,  the  short 
rod  and  worm  bait  will  kill  them  much  more  rapidly  than 
a  slender  rod  and  a  landing-net.  But  the  angler  does 
not  always  seek  many  fish,  and  the  difference  is  in  the 
pleasure  of  the  skillful  sport  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
rapidity  of  filling  a  basket  on  the  other.  Nevertheless, 
as  I  have  clearly  stated  before,  I  am  not  one  of  the 
class  of  anglers  who  despise  bait-fishing  even  for  trout, 
and  when  I  want  them  in  quantity  for  any  purpose,  I  use 
whichever  I  find  to  be  the  most  taking  lure.  I  can  see 
the  scornful  smile  of  some  of  my  readers  at  this  avowal. 
Be  as  scornful  as  you  please.  It  is  to  my  notion  the  ex- 
treme of  nonsense  for  modern  fishermen  to  read  old  Izaak 


DIAMOND   POND.  307 

out  of  the  society  of  anglers  because  he  fished  with  bait. 
Izaak  was  wise  in  his  generation,  and  among  the  wisest 
of  his  doings  was  this  same  act  of  sagacity  as  a  sports- 
man— using  bait  when  the  fish  would  not  take  a  fly.  But 
I  wander,  and  return  to  the  subject,  only  adding  that  deli- 
cate tackle  will  sometimes  take  more  and  larger  fish  than 
homely  rods  and  lines,  and  Diamond  Pond  itself  shall 
prove  the  proposition. 

They  said  our  Norris  rods  would  not  lift  a  trout  to  the 
surface,  much  less  out  of  water.  They  forgot,  as  most 
people  do,  that  a  dead  fish  is  little  if  at  all  heavier  than 
water,  and  does  not  need  lifting  to  the  top.  The  mys- 
teries of  a  landing-net  are  seldom  understood  by  those 
who  are  accustomed  to  throw  their  fish  over  their  heads 
on  the  end  of  a  short  line  and  long  stiff  rod.  "  But  your 
rods  are  too  short.  You  can  not  throw  your  fly  far 
enough.  If  you  fish  Diamond  Pond  you  must  have  a  rod 
fifteen  feet  long,  and  a  line  twelve  feet  at  least.  The 
trout  are  very  shy  there."  Reply :  "We  can  throw  a  fly 
seventy-five  feet  with  these  rods."  Rejoinder:  incredulous 
smiles,  and  a  murmur  in  the  corner  of  the  room  that  they 
are  "  not  so  green  in  Colebrcok"  as  we  seemed  to  imagine. 

The  morning  of  Saturday  was  by  all  odds  the  most  glo- 
rious morning  on  record.  It  was  a  day  of  days.  Such 
a  sky!  such  sunshine  !  such  rich,  cool  atmosphere  !  Our 
guide  failed  us  at  the  start,  and  two  hours'  delay  ensued. 
A  volunteer  was  gladly  accepted.  He  was  a  gentleman 
who  was  seeking  health  by  a  long  stay  at  Colebrook.  He 
had  been  frequently  at  Diamond  Pond,  and  knew  all  about 
it.  He  proved  the  best  of  company,  and  the  horses  went 
like  the  wind  under  his  handling  of  the  ribbons.  I  don't 
think  horses  ever  did  better  work.  It  was  fifteen  miles 
if  it  was  a  rod,  and  we  did  it  in  an  hour  and  three  quar- 


308  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

ters,  up  hill  and  down,  through  forest,  passing  fine  farms, 
then  new  frame  houses,  then  log  huts,  and  at  last  pulling 
up  short  at  the  end  of  the  road  by  a  small  cottage  and  a 
barn,  wherein  we  placed  the  steeds  for  rest  and  refresh- 
ment. 

In  later  years  Dupont  and  and  I  have  made 

that  little  house  a  fishing  home,  and  have  seen  there  such 
days  of  long  delight  and  starry  evenings,  full  of  all  man- 
ner of  joyousness,  as  I  shall  never  know  again. 

A  half-mile  walk,  through  a  primeval  forest,  brought  us 
to  the  bank  of  the  lake.  Look  again  at  your  map  of  New 
Hampshire,  if  you  have  one,  and  note  the  locality.  You 
will  not  find  the  lake  laid  down.  There  are  a  hundred 
lakes  hereabouts  which  are  unknown  to  the  map-makers. 
It  is  possible,  however,  that  you  may  find  the  head  of  the 
Androscoggin  River  flowing  west  out  of  Lake  Umbagog, 
and  receiving  the  Magalloway  River  before  it  bends  south- 
ward. Now  go  up  the  Magalloway  ten  miles,  and  you 
will  find  the  Diamond  River  coming  into  it  from  the  west. 
Diamond  River  flows  from  Great  Diamond  Lake,  which 
receives  by  a  short  stream  the  waters  of  Little  Diamond, 
on  whose  bank  we  stood.  It  is  nearly  round,  not  much 
over  a  thousand  feet  in  diameter,  surrounded  by  forest. 
The  bank  is  nowhere  accessible  for  casting  a  fly.  There 
was  one  old  boat  on  it,  a  wood-cutter's  scow,  which  should 
have  been  found  at  the  spot  where  we  pushed  through  the 
low  brush  to  the  water's  edge.  But  it  was  missing.  A 
few  shouts  brought  a  response,  and  at  length  the  boat 
came  in  sight,  paddled  by  one  man  and  holding  three 
others,  who  had  been  in  camp  across  the  lake  for  several 
days.  The  boatman  was  a  Frenchman,  who  lived  in  one 
of  the  log  huts  we  had  passed,  and  who,  on  learning  that 
we  wanted  the  boat,  exhibited  a  common  phase  of  human 


DIAMOND    POND.  309 

nature,  by  showing  us  his  rough  side  first.  He  was  going 
back  to  ferry  over  the  baggage  from  the  camp,  and  then 
was  going  to  use  the  boat  himself  for  a  few  hours'  fish- 
ing. It  was  already  noon,  and  the  prospect  was  poor  ;  the 
Frenchman  was  surly  and  pushed  off.  While  he  was 
gone  the  camping  party  assured  us  that  we  would  get  no 
trout,  for  various  reasons,  chiefly  that  they  had  got  none 
for  two  days,  that  the  water  was  very  clear,  the  sunshine 
very  bright,  the  breeze  had  gone  and  there  was  no  ripple, 
and  finally,  when  they  saw  the  light  rods,  they  stopped 
explaining  and  simply  laughed  at  us.  So  did  the  French- 
man when  he  came  back  with  the  luggage,  and  when  a 
couple  of  dollars  had  civilized  and  converted  him  from  a 
foe  into  a  friend. 

"  I'll  paddle  you  about  myself.  I  know  all  about  the 
lake,  but  you'll  get  no  fish  with  those  rods  here." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  you  can't  get  near  enough  to  the  trout." 

"  We'll  see." 

So  out  we  pushed  on  the  glassy  surface  of  the  Diamond 
in  a  broad  noon  sunshine.  A  poor  prospect  for  trout, 
and  it  must  be  confessed  that  every  one  we  had  seen 
since  our  arrival  at  Colebrook  had  agreed  with  every  one 
else  that  we  were  not  to  take  any. 

The  old  boat  was  wet  and  dirty.  I  cut  plenty  of  pine 
boughs  and  filled  her  up,  threw  myself  down  on  them,  and 
luxuriated  in  the  sun  and  air  as  we  went  around  the  edge 
of  the  lake,  impelled  by  the  noiseless  paddle  of  the  skill- 
ful Frenchman,  who  proved  a  first-rate  fellow.  I  was  idle, 
and  Dupont  sat  gravely  looking  at  the  glassy  surface, 
doubting  much  whether  it  was  worth  his  while  to  exercise 
his  wrist.  We  saw  no  break  on  the  surface  any  where. 
The  Frenchman  and  our  Colebrook  friend  were  regretting 


310  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

that  we  had  not  brought  long  rods,  and  protesting  that  it 
would  be  a  waste  of  time  to  remain  on  the  lake.  "  I  have 
seen  fine  trout  rise  inshore  there,"  said  the  Frenchman, 
as  we  passed  a  sort  of  cove,  a  rock  rising  between  us  and 
it  some  twenty  or  thirty  feet  off.  Dupont,  without  rising, 
prepared  for  his  first  cast.  A  few  swift  swings  of  the  rod 
while  he  reeled  off  the  required  length,  and  seventy  feet 
of  gray  silk  line  was  in  the  air,  then  a  short  twist  of  the 
wrist  and  the  little  red  ibis  fly  touched  the  water,  away 
beyond  the  rock  in  the  middle  of  the  cove,  full  five  rods 
distant.  Nor  had  it  touched  the  surface  before  there  was 
a  sharp  rush  and  plunge  over  it,  and  my  friend  quietly 
said,  "  I  have  him."  The  look  of  the  Frenchman  was  in- 
finitely ludicrous.  When  he  saw  the  line  gathering  in  the 
air  for  the  cast,  he  forgot  his  paddle ;  when  the  fly  went 
into  the  cove,  he  stood  up  with  open  mouth ;  when  Du- 
pont said,  "I  have  him,"  he  gulped  out,  "What!  a  trout?" 
and  when  he  saw  the  little  Norris  rod  bend  to  the  pull, 
and  after  a  short  struggle  bring  alongside  a  pound  trout, 
which  with  the  aid  of  the  landing-net  soon  lay  at  his  feet, 
his  expressions  of  astonishment  knew  no  bounds.  I  was 
so  thoroughly  occupied  in  watching  his  countenance  and 
enjoying  the  surprise  as  well  of  our  Colebrook  friend,  that 
for  a  full  half-hour  I  lay  in  the  end  of  the  boat  without 
making  a  cast.  Dupont  meantime  landed  a  dozen  fine 
trout,  and  threw  back  some  which  were  too  small  for  such 
company.  When  I  commenced  to  work,  we  had  an  illus- 
tration of  the  curious  luck  of  fishermen.  Our  rods,  lines, 
leaders,  and  flies  were  precisely  alike,  and  we  cast  within 
six  feet  of  each  other,  but  nothing  would  rise  to  me,  while 
he  took  fine  fish.  For  more  than  an  hour  I  did  not  have 
one  rise,  while  he  was  taking  plenty.  Then  suddenly,  for 
no  cause  that  I  can  explain,  my  luck  changed,  and  I  had 


DIAMOND    POND.  31 1 

as  many  fish  as  I  could  handle.  When  the  sun  went  to 
the  westward,  and  the  shadows  of  the  trees  began  to  creep 
out  over  the  water,  we  moved  up  to  the  head  of  the  lake, 
where  the  water  was  not  two  feet  deep,  and  grass  grew 
from  the  bottom  in  abundance.  Here  at  every  cast  we 
had  fine  fish,  often  two  at  a  time,  and  once  three  on  one 
leader.  The  general  run  of  the  trout  which  we  took  in 
this  lake  would  average  something  less  than  a  pound. 
Only  one  I  think  went  above  a  pound  and  a  half. 

Here  was  a  case  for  the  consideration  of  all  theoretical 
anglers.  It  was  a  clear,  sunshiny,  still  day,  with  a  cool 
air  from  the  northwest,  the  previous  day  having  been  hot. 
There  was  an  occasional  ripple  on  the  surface,  but  in  the 
main  it  was  glassy.  The  best  fly  was  the  scarlet  ibis, 
proved  by  the  fact  that  with  three  flies  on  each  leader  we 
took  three  trout  on  the  ibis  to  one  on  any  other  fly. 

We  left  the  lake  at  half-past  four,  mindful  of  a  long 
drive  over  a  wild  mountain  road,  good  in  the  track,  but 
narrow  and  bordered  by  rocks  and  ravines.  I  have  for- 
gotten the  number  of  trout  taken,  but  according  to  the 
best  of  my  recollection  it  was  upward  of  fifty,  all  fine  in 
size  and  quality.  Along  the  road  home  our  Colebrook 
friend  chanted  the  praises  of  delicate  tackle,  and  in  the 
evening  the  crowd  in  the  hotel  bar-room  looked  with  won- 
derment at  the  catch,  and  examined  the  rods  and  lines 
and  flies  alternately,  and  listened  to  the  marvelous  ac- 
counts of  our  companion,  who  clinched  his  stories  with 
the  bold  assertion  that  "while  we  were  coasting  down  the 
north  side  of  the  lake,  those  two  gentlemen  were  throwing 
their  flies  into  the  shadows  on  the  south  side  and  pulling 
great  trout  clear  across  the  pond." 

On  Sunday  we  rested  quietly,  attending  the  morning 
service  at  a  little  village  church. 


312  I   GO  A- FISHING. 

On  Monday  morning,  having  a  favorable  report  from 
our  explorers,  we  pushed  on  for  Dixville  Notch.  The 
roads  are  good  in  all  this  part  of  New  Hampshire.  Our 
route  lay  up  the  Mohawk  River,  which,  flowing  from  the 
Notch  and  receiving  other  streams,  empties  into  the  Con- 
necticut at  Colebrook.  As  we  rode  along  we  noted  that 
trout  were  rising  in  the  pools  visible  from  the  road.  ( It  is 
doubtless  a  stream  well  worth  fishing. 

At  length  we  began  to  ascend  toward  the  Notch.  The 
forest  closed  in.  The  trees  not  only  met  above  the  road, 
but  they  fairly  closed  the  road  with  long,  slender,  leaf- 
covered  branches,  so  that  the  carriage  sailed  through  a 
sea  of  leaves,  parting  them  on  either  side  as  a  boat  parts 
the  water.  Thus  for  two  miles,  when  suddenly  we  came 
out  of  the  thicket  and  found  ourselves  at  the  gate  of  the 
Notch. 

It  is  one  of  the  wildest  and  most  imposing  pieces  of 
rock  and  mountain  scenery  on  the  Atlantic  side  of  our 
country.  Totally  different  from,  and  therefore  not  to  be 
compared  with  any  of  the  passes  among  the  White  Mount- 
ains, it  has  peculiar  characteristics  which  are  not  equaled 
elsewhere.  In  general  it  may  be  said  that  the  Notch  looks 
as  if  it  had  been  produced  by  a  convulsion  of  nature, 
which  broke  the  mountain  ridge  from  underneath,  throw- 
ing the  strata  of  rocks  up  into  the  air,  and  letting  them 
fall  in  all  directions.  The  result  is  that  the  lines  of  strat- 
ification in  the  solid  part  of  the  hills  point  upward,  some- 
times nearly  perpendicularly,  and  several  pinnacles  of 
rock,  like  the  falling  spires  of  cathedrals,  stand  out 
against  the  sky.  On  Saturday  the  Baron  had  made  the 
ascent  of  one  of  these  pinnacles  or  spires,  and  came  near 
being  converted  into  a  St.  Simeon  Stylites,  for  the  rock 
crumbled  behind  him,  and  left  him  no  visible  way  of  re- 


DIXVILLE    NOTCH.  313 

turn  after  he  had  reached  the  lofty  summit.  With  phil- 
osophic calmness,  however,  he  sketched  the  scene  from 
that  point,  perhaps  intending  to  throw  it  down  to  St. 
A —  -  as  his  farewell  work;  but  having  finished  his 
sketch,  he  accomplished  a  descent  which  was  perilous  in 
the  extreme,  and  which  indeed  to  our  eyes  on  Monday 
seemed  incredible. 

Up  the  wild  pass  the  Mountain  Ranger  pressed.  The 
road  was  now  the  solid  rock.  The  vast  walls  closed  in 
on  each  side  of  us.  A  few  hundred  feet  up  the  steep  hill 
brought  us  to  the  summit  of  the  pass,  and  the  carriage 
stood  still  across  the  point  of  rock.  It  was  a  little  past 
twelve  o'clock  noon,  and  the  sun  was  behind  the  very 
peak  of  the  precipice  which  towered  some  five  hundred 
feet  above  us.  A  cold  wind  rushed  and  roared  through 
the  Notch.  Its  sounds  were  curious,  sometimes  almost 
human,  as  if  there  were  inhabitants  of  this  weird  pass  who 
were  angry  at  our  invasion.  The  marked  characteristic 
of  all  the  view  was  the  worn-out,  used-up  appearance  of 
every  thing.  The  rocks  were  all  decayed  and  crumbling; 
the  mosses  were  brown  and  dry ;  the  bushes  were  little, 
old  weazen-faced  bushes ;  the  very  sky  seemed  brown  or 
brassy  overhead. 

It  is  a  very  remarkable,  a  wonderful  piece  of  scenery, 
and  taking  in  connection  with  this  the  various  views  along 
the  road,  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  the  drive 
from  Colebrook,  through  Dixville  Notch  to  Bethel,  is  the 
finest  drive  I  have  ever  found  in  America.  I  remark  in 
passing  that  any  ordinarily  strong  wagon,  carriage,  or 
buggy  will  go  safely  enough  through  this  road.  No  one 
should  think  of  attempting  to  travel  in  New  Hampshire 
with  a  light-built  city  carriage. 

We  walked  down  the  sudden  plunge  of  the  road  east- 


314  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

ward  from  the  summit,  and  soon  reached  the  Cold  Spring. 
It  is  verily  cold.  A  mere  trickling,  drop  by  drop,  of 
water ;  but  I  think  a  thermometer  would  show  it  to  be  as 
low  as  40,  and  possibly  lower. 

If  any  one  ask  you  whence  the  name  Dixville  Notch, 
there  is  no  better  reason  to  give  than  this,  to  wit,  that  once 
a  party  of  ten  persons  from  New  York,  a  gay  and  joyous 
party,  full  of  enjoyment,  forgot  here  for  a  while  the  outer 
world  and  made  this  the  city  of  their  habitation ;  for 
where  one  eats  one  inhabits.  And  did  we  not  eat  there? 
In  the  eastern  part  of  the  pass  near  the  road  on  the  left 
is  a  flume,  a  gorge  of  the  rocks  through  which  a  crystal 
stream  leaps  babbling  as  streams  are  wont.  We  rested 
there,  and  the  horses  ate  their  provender  while  we  lunched. 
It  was  a  group  which  might  well  have  given  a  name  to 
the  place,  that  picturesque  assemblage  under  the  old  trees 
by  the  road-side.  We  had  intended  to  bake  some  trout, 
but  languor  and  laziness  came  on  us,  and  we  sat  down  on 
the  soft  pine  leaves  and  drank  in  the  deliciousness  of 
"  doing  nothing." 

An  hour,  two  hours  passed  swiftly  by,  and  we  again 
commenced  the  journey.  The  road  was  fine,  and  we 
rattled  along  rapidly  through  the  forest,  following  the 
descent  of  a  swift  and  increasing  brook,  which  rises  in 
the  Notch,  is  called  Clear  Stream,  and  empties  into  the 
Androscoggin  a  mile  below  Errol  Dam.  The  road  after 
some  twelve  miles  of  forest  emerged  on  farming  lands, 
and  at  length  crossed  the  Androscoggin  by  a  covered 
bridge.  We  did  not  cross,  but  turned  short  to  the  left  up 
the  river,  and  again  into  the  woods. 

The  sun  was  setting  beyond  the  Dixville  Hills  when  we 
emerged  from  the  forest  at  Errol  Darn,  and  our  six-horse 
team,  not  a  bit  wearied  with  the  journey  through  the  pass, 


ERROL   DAM.  315 

dashed  up  a  slight  ascent  to  the  door  of  a  neat  frame 
house  standing  a  hundred  feet  or  so  above  the  river. 
The  Androscoggin,  leaving  Lake  Umbagog  some  six 
miles  above  this  spot,  flows  sluggishly  in  a  black,  deep 
stream  to  this,  its  first  obstruction.  The  river  is  here 
nearly  two  hundred  feet  broad.  The  dam,  being  intended 
solely  for  timber  purposes,  is  a  fine  structure,  with  six 
sluice-ways  through  which  logs  can  be  passed  down.  In 
the  running  season  they  are  here  counted  and  the  toll 
imposed.  The  sloping  log-ways  through  the  dam  are 
about  a  hundred  feet  in  length,  heavily  timbered,  with 
gates  at  the  upper  end,  which  may  be  entirely  closed. 
The  river  above  the  dam  is  broad,  smooth,  and  flowing 
gently,  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  current ;  but  as  it  ap- 
proaches the  dam  the  black  surface  bends  suddenly  down- 
ward with  a  graceful  curve,  and  the  water  rushes  head- 
long into  the  sluice-ways,  which  it  enters  some  thirty  or 
forty  feet  below  this  curve  in  the  surface.  On  the  north 
side  of  the  river,  near  the  dam,  stood  the  house  of  which 
I  have  spoken.  Originally  this  was  designed  solely  as  a 
place  of  residence  for  the  lumbermen  engaged  in  work, 
but  the  proprietors  had  added  a  front  building  to  the  old 
cottage,  and  our  surprise  was  great  when  on  entering  it  we 
found  an  abundance  of  clean,  neat  rooms,  simply  but  beau- 
tifully furnished,  and  the  whole  establishment  better  in  ap- 
pearance than  nine  out  of  ten  of  the  large  hotels  in  our  cities. 
Evening  was  at  hand,  and  the  roar  of  the  river  was  in- 
viting. Dupont  and  myself  hastened  to  unpack  our  tackle, 
and  went  down  to  the  water  to  try  a  few  casts  in  the  twi- 
light. The  deep  basin  at  the  foot  of  the  dam  presented 
the  most  flattering  prospect  for  trout,  and  we  whipped  it 
for  some  time,  but  without  a  rise.  Then  we  essayed  the 
black  water  above  the  dam  with  equally  poor  success. 


316  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

Then  we  went  down  to  a  vast  timber-jam,  which  covered 
the  entire  river  and  hid  its  surface  for  a  half-mile  below. 
We  tried  various  openings  in  this,  but  although  chubs  rose 
in  abundance  we  saw  no  fin  of  a  trout.  It  was  discour- 
aging, and  when  it  became  profoundly  dark  we  went  back 
to  the  house  in  poor  spirits,  and  began  to  talk  of  return- 
ing to  Diamond  Pond. 

The  evening  in  the  house  was  cheery.  We  gathered 
around  a  blazing  fire  in  the  little  parlor,  and  made  merry 
over  our  position.  As  the  hours  wore  on  we  heard  a 
sound  of  singing  in  the  other  end  of  the  house,  and  at 
length  the  swell  of  clear,  strong  voices  came  in,  chant- 
ing old  sacred  tunes.  St.  A had  found  the  group  of 

lumbermen,  and  tested  their  musical  abilities  to  good  ef- 
fect. They  made  the  night,  now  light  with  the  moon, 
ring  with  the  grand  old  songs  which,  however  rudely 
sung,  if  but  with  spirit,  are  full  of  power,  and  stir  one's 
heart  to  its  depths.  I  stood  for  a  little  while  on  the  bank 
by  the  house  over  the  river,  and  heard  the  songs  strug- 
gling in  the  air  with  the  tremendous  roar  of  the  dam.  It 
was  the  old  struggle  of  nature  against  the  influences  of 
Christianity  and  civilization.  The  river  asserted  its  an- 
cient right,  in  hoarse  and  expressive  voice.  The  song  in 
the  house  mingled  with  the  sound  of  the  river,  and  gently 
insinuated  its  tones  so  that  it  took  possession  of  the  for- 
est forces,  and  while  I  listened  the  song  burst  into  chorus, 
and  there  was  no  longer  any  sound  of  river  to  be  heard. 
Much  so  is  it  with  the  actual  advance  of  civilization  in 
these  regions.  First  come  the  wood-cutters,  using  the 
lakes  and  rivers  in  their  original  force ;  then  follow  the 
farmers  and  schools  and  churches ;  and  the  land  and  the 
water  are  subjected  to  the  power  of  man  and  the  pres- 
ence of  art  and  Christianity. 


SWIFT- WATER    FISHING.  317 

It  was  a  beautiful  night.  The  moon  was  high  in  air 
across  the  valley  ;  white  mists  were  streaming  up  from  the 
basin  below  the  fall ;  weird  shadows  lay  here  and  there 
on  the  cleared  ground  ;  the  cry  of  a  loon,  from  far  up  the 
river,  came  mournfully  through  the  forest;  the  water  raged 
in  the  open  basin,  but  the  mists  above  it  seemed  to  hush 
it  somewhat,  as  if  they  were  its  masters ;  then  sleep  came 
down  peacefully  on  us  all. 

Early  in  the  morning  I  was  out.  Immediately  above 
the  dam  lay  a  timber  raft  used  for  repairing  purposes. 
This  was  swinging  in  the  fierce  current,  held  by  two  stout 
hawsers  made  fast  on  the  opposite  sides  of  the  river  two 
hundred  feet  above.  This  raft  was  lying  in  the  swift 
rush  of  the  river  toward  the  sluice-ways,  the  upper  end 
being  some  feet  above  the  edge  of  the  still,  black  water, 
and  the  lower  end  only  a  few  feet  from  the  edge  of  the 
dam.  Trout  ascending  the  river  must  make  a  sharp 
rush  of-  about  a  hundred  feet  up  the  sluice-ways.  The 
instant  they  reach  the  top,  they  can  sink  into  the  deep 
water  of  the  dam,  and  here  they  usually  wait  to  rest  after 
the  rush.  As  yet  we  had  not  seen  any  trout,  and  I  knew 
nothing  of  what  to  expect  in  the  way  of  size  or  strength. 
Standing  on  the  raft  I  cast  on  the  still  water  just  at  the 
edge  of  the  curve,  and  the  fly  swept  down  like  lightning 
as  I  drew  across  toward  the  raft.  I  am  particular  in  de- 
scribing this,  as  it  will  illustrate  the  ability  of  a  well-made 
seven -ounce  rod  which  I  was  using.  A  dozen  casts 
brought  nothing;  then  came  the  rush.  He  went  over 
the  fly,  a  foot  out  of  water,  turned  in  the  air,  and  struck 
with  open  mouth  as  he  went  down.  Of  course  he  hooked 
himself.  No  skill  was  needed  to  accomplish  that.  In 
such  water  with  such  a  leap  the  trout  is  sure  to  fix  the 
barb  in  his  lip  or  jaw.  His  first  dash  was  fearful.  It 


318  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

was  right  downward ;  then  feeling  the  line  he  rose  again 
and  turned  rapidly  toward  the  dam,  and  shot  down  the 
swift  current,  seeking  to  descend  the  sluice-way.  Here 
the  beautiful  rod  came  into  play,  and  with  its  gentle  but 
uniform  and  steel-like  spring,  it  swung  him  head  up  be- 
fore he  reached  the  edge  of  the  timbers.  If  he  had  gone 
ten  feet  farther  he  would  have  passed  under  the  gate, 
and  then  it  would  have  been  all  up  with  my  tackle.  If 
he  had  not  been  well  hooked  he  would  have  been  swept 
away  by  the  mere  force  of  the  current  on  his  body. 
Holding  him  steadily  in  the  current,  meeting  an  occa- 
sional swift  dash,  and  keeping  his  upper  jaw  above  wa- 
ter so  that  the  stream  poured  into  his  open  throat,  it  took 
not  more  than  three  minutes  to  reduce  him  to  such  sub- 
jection that  I  could  swing  him  alongside  of  the  raft,  and 
lift  him  out  with  the  landing-net.  It  was  a  short,  sharp, 
and  spirited  contest,  and  the  little  rod  did  superb  execu- 
tion. 

Dupont  joined  me  on  the  raft  before  I  had  landed  the 
first  trout,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  busy  as  I  had  been 
with  a  strong  and  lively  three-pounder,  whose  strength  he 
exhausted  most  skillfully.  We  had  killed  six  or  eight, 
when  I  became  anxious  about  my  tackle,  for  it  was  a 
very  risky  place  to  work  in.  If  one  of  these  stout  fel- 
lows should  once  happen  to  gain  the  edge  of  the  sluice 
it  might  be  destruction  to  rod  or  line,  and  possibly  to 
both,  unless  I  could  save  them  by  a  miracle  of  quick 
work.  So  I  went  up  to  the  house  for  a  somewhat  stron- 
ger and  less  valued  rod.  But  I  had  become  so  accus- 
tomed to  the  action  of  the  Norris  rod,  that,  after  landing 
one  fish  with  the  heavier  rod,  I  returned  to  the  other  and 
used  it  till  we  were  called  to  breakfast. 

The  ladies  were  awake  and  in  the  best  of  spirits.     I 


MOUTH    OF   CLEAR    STREAM.  319 

assure  you  there  never  was  and  never  will  be  a  more 
brilliant  breakfast  party  on  the  banks  of  the  Androscog- 
gin,  even  after  those  days  come,  which  will  surely  come, 
when  cities  will  replace  the  forests.  The  trout  were  de- 
licious, the  flavor  excellent,  the  flesh  firm  and  rich,  the 
color  as  deep  red  as  the  darkest  Long  Island  trout.  Our 
boxes  of  stores  supplied  abundant  variety  for  the  table, 
so  that  during  the  eight  or  nine  days  which  we  passed  at 
Errol  Dam  we  lived  in  luxury. 

All  along  the  river,  from  the  dam  down  to  the  bridge, 
we  found  more  or  less  trout  during  the  day.  As  the  sun 
went  westward  I  recalled  a  talk  I  had  held  in  the  Cole- 
brook  bar-room  with  a  stranger,  who  said  to  me,  "  When 
you  are  at  Errol  Dam  go  to  the  mouth  of  the  Clear 
Stream." 

Below  the  bridge  the  Androscoggin  takes  a  short  turn 
to  the  south,  and  has  there  formed  a  broad  bay,  several 
hundred  feet  across.  On  the  west  side  of  this  the  Clear 
Stream  comes  in;  and  finding  a  boat  near  the  bridge,  at 
about  five  o'clock  we  pushed  across,  and  ran  the  bow  on 
the  bank  at  the  junction  of  the  streams.  As  it  was  now 
late  in  the  season,  this  was  theoretically  a  good  spot  for 
trout  to  gather,  and  await  the  later  freshets  before  they 
ran  up  the  colder  brooks  to  seek  spawning  beds.  Nor 
was  theory  disproved  by  facts.  We  found  large  trout, 
and  abundance  of  them,  and  had  all  the  work  we  wished 
until  dark.  That  evening  we  killed  twenty-nine  trout, 
each  weighing  from  two  to  three  pounds. 

Thereafter  we  passed  the  days  in  somewhat  uniform 
routine :  at  the  dam  in  the  morning,  killing  fish  in  the 
swift  water;  at  the  mouth  of  Clear  Stream  in  the  evening, 
taking  from  twenty-seven,  our  smallest  catch,  to  thirty- 
four,  our  largest,  every  evening  between  sunset  and  dark. 


320  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

One  evening  \ve  could  not  find  our  boat,  and  walked  a 
mile  around  the  bay  through  swamps  and  brush,  and 
finding  a  small  boat  in  the  Clear  Stream,  appropriated  it 
and  had  our  usual  success.  We  were  late  in  arriving, 
but  the  trout  rose  later  than  usual,  and  we  killed  thirty- 
four,  which  weighed  something  more  than  seventy  pounds. 
It  was  profoundly  dark  and  cloudy  when  we  left  the  boat 
where  we  had  found  it,  and  sought  our  way  homeward. 
But  we  lost  ourselves  in  the  swamp,  and  plunged  into 
holes,  and  became  involved  in  the  snake-like  windings  of 
a  deep,  narrow  strip  of  water,  and  it  was  nearly  ten 
o'clock  when  we  relieved  the  anxieties  of  our  friends  at 
the  dam.  This  was  our  last  night,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing we  started  for  civilization  via  Bethel  in  Maine.  The 
drive  down  the  Bear  River  Notch  is  hardly  inferior  in 
scenery  to  that  through  Dixville  Notch.  All  along  the 
road-side  we  found  streams  with  abundance  of  small 
trout,  and  mountain  and  valley  views  which  are  nowhere 
to  be  surpassed. 

In  after  times  I  have  found  no  change  in  the  fishing  at 
these  places,  and  on  the  Magalloway,  a  few  miles  above 
Errol  Dam,  the  highest  desires  of  the  angler,  who  seeks 
waters  that  have  been  seldom  whipped,  may  be  fully 
gratified. 


XVI. 

EVENING  AT  THE  FERNS. 

WE  had  been  driving  all  the  afternoon  over  the  hills 
of  Westchester  County  and  Connecticut,  looking  at  the 
streams  in  which  years  ago  trout  were  abundant,  but 
from  which  they  have  now  disappeared.  I  was  visiting 
a  friend  in  Connecticut,  one  of  those  men  whom  to  know 
is  to  love — one  who  had  read  the  lessons  of  life  to  ad- 
vantage— a  man  of  the  world  who  knew  the  world — a 
scholar  who  loved  books,  and  with  whom  it  was  a  luxury 
to  talk  about  them — a  traveler  who  had  treasure  of  travel- 
memory  in  his  heart — a  man  who  made  his  home  a  place 
where  he  and  his  fair  young  wife  loved  to  be,  and  loved 
to  have  those  who  were  of  kindred  tastes,  and  where  art- 
ists and  students,  and  men  of  active  business  life,  and 
divines  met  in  the  pleasantest  companies,  and  always 
loved  to  meet.  That  was  the  most  charming  country 
home  in  all  the  land.  It  was,  I  say,  for  my  friend  Ward 
has  gone  to  a  home  of  even  more  light  and  joy,  and  the 
door  at  the  Ferns  is  not  open  now.  But  it's  a  pleasant 
home  to  remember  for  us  poor  wanderers.  Again  and 
again  I  am  deeply  grateful  for  the  blessings  of  so  many 
happy  memories.  I  have  grown  old  enough  to  possess 
more  earthly  happiness  in  memories  than  in  possessions 
or  anticipations.  As  life  advances  this  is  the  experience 
of  every  thoughtful  man. 

X 


322  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

As  we  rode  along  that  afternoon  I  recalled  the  days 
when  I  had  taken  trout  in  the  streams  of  Westchester 
County,  and  told  Ward  stories  of  the  old  time,  and  at 
every  one  of  my  stories  he  fired  some  quaint  old  English 
quotation,  or  a  pat  passage  from  Horace,  or  from  a  medi- 
aeval hymn.  For  he  loved,  as  did  I,  the  old  monkish 
hymns,  notwithstanding  their  bad  Latin;  and  he  trans- 
lated some  of  them  with  a  force  and  effect  I  have  not 
seen  equaled  by  any  other  translator. 

We  pulled  up  on  a  bridge,  and  I  recalled  a  scene  on 
that  bridge  years  and  years  ago.  The  stream  was  broad 
and  shallow  under  the  bridge,  but  narrowed  below,  and 
fell  suddenly  a  few  inches  as  it  passed  under  a  single 
rail  of  the  road-side  fence  into  a  deep  pool.  I  stood  on 
the  bridge  and  cast  a  fly  over  the  rail,  and  struck  a  half- 
pound  trout,  and  couldn't  get  the  trout  up  over  the  rail, 
and  couldn't  get  down  from  the  high  bridge  to  go  into 
the  field  below,  and  the  result  was  that  I  broke  my  rod — 
•'alas!  master,  for  it  was  borrowed" — and  lost  my  trout, 
and  learned  a  lesson.  Which  lesson  may  be  recorded 
here  for  young  anglers  to  read.  Never  make  a  cast  until 
you  see  your  way  clear  to  land  your  fish  if  one  strikes. 
I  remember — and  I  told  the  story  to  my  friend — that  I 
was  once  standing  on  the  railway  bridge  at  Rouse's  Point, 
where  I  was  waiting  some  hours  for  a  train.  I  had  a 
strong  rod,  and  was  taking  black  bass  with  a  small  spoon  ; 
and  at  length  I  walked  out  on  the  railway  ties,  twenty 
teet  above  the  river,  and  dropped  my  spoon  in  deep  wa- 
ter. Lifting  the  rod  I  could  bring  the  spoon  up  fifteen 
or  twenty  feet  to  the  surface,  then  let  it  sink,  and  raise  it 
in  the  same  way  again.  So  I  did,  again  and  again  for  ten 
minutes,  with  no  result ;  and  then,  as  it  came  up,  I  saw, 
directly  under  and  following  it  to  the  surface,  the  gaping 


ROUSE'S  POINT.  323 

jaws  of  a  gigantic  pickerel,  an  eighteen-pounder  at  the 
least.  Just  one  quick  jerk,  a  pause,  and  the  great  jaws 
closed  on  the  spoon.  I  struck  hard,  and  had  him,  or 
rather  he  had  me  ;  for  what  was  I  to  do  with  him  ?  Two 
hundred  feet  from  land,  on  a  pile  bridge,  twenty  feet  above 
the  water,  with  such  a  fish  to  manage,  and  a  hundred 
piles  standing  out  of  water  in  every  direction — this  was  a 
situation  to  puzzle  an  angler.  As  long  as  he  headed 
southward  for  Lake  Champlain,  and  swung  about  in  that 
direction,  I  was  confident;  but  after  ten  minutes  of  that 
he  came  north  for  the  St.  Lawrence — down  the  river — 
passed  under  me  with  a  swift  rush,  and  then  I  knew  it  was 
all  up  with  my  tackle.  I  snubbed  him  with  all  the  force 
of  the  rod,  but  that  only  served  to  turn  him  once  after  he 
had  gone  well  under  the  bridge,  so  that  he  took  a  turn 
around  a  pile,  and  of  course  that  was  the  end  of  the  con- 
test. After  a  reasonable  delay,  I  broke  my  line  by  a  hard 
pull,  and  left  spoon  and  pickerel  in  the  depths  of  the  un- 
known. That  all  came  from  the  folly  of  allowing  a  fish 
to  get  the  hook  when  I  was  in  no  position  to  land  him  or 
save  my  tackle.  But  then  my  excuse  was  that  I  had 
never  dreamed  of  stirring  up  such  a  monster. 

We  drove  homeward.  It  was  an  evening  in  May;  the 
air  soft  and  balmy — a  breath  of  the  coming  June.  The 
flush  of  sunset  sanctified  the  vast  expanse  of  Long  Island 
Sound,  and  the  sails  of  a  hundred  vessels  were  rosy  wings. 
So  on  tropic  seas  I  have  sometimes  seen  here  and  there 
white  pelicans  and  the  snowy  spoonbills  changed  at  sun- 
set into  birds  of  paradise. 

There  can  be  no  scene  more  beautiful  than  was  that 
evening  view  from  the  balcony  at  the  Ferns.  Under  the 
branches  of  the  trees,  through  the  masses  of  the  vines  that 
overhung  the  piazza,  we  looked  away  off  to  the  south  and 


324  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

west,  over  the  sound  to  the  low  hills  of  Long  Island,  and 
eastward  to  the  meeting  of  the  water  with  the  horizon. 
The  birds  were  innumerable,  and  if  one  had  not  gotten  to 
be  accustomed  to  it,  their  chatter  and  song  would  have 
forbidden  conversation. 

Occupying  no  small  part  of  the  piazza,  was  a  vast 
aviary,  in  which  Mrs.  Ward  had  a  host  of  pets,  the  birds 
of  many  lands.  And  the  afternoon  previous  Ward  had 
gathered  some  handfuls  of  the  new-mown  grass  from  the 
lawn  and  spread  it  over  the  top  of  he  wires,  and,  to  our 
surprise  and  delight,  two  weaver-birds  had  joyously  seized 
the  material  and  woven  a  marvelous  fabric — a  hollow 
nest — a  bottle  with  a  narrow  neck  hanging  in  the  middle 
of  the  cage.  They  were  a  fierce  little  pair  of  defenders 
of  their  home  altar,  and  would  let  no  other  bird  come 
near  it ;  and  as  we  sat  and  smoked  we  watched  their 
curious  and  cunning  ways,  and  our  talk  ran  somewhat  in 
this  wise  : 

"  Where  did  they  come  from  ?" 

"Bought  in  New  York  at  a  bird  shop." 

"  You  don't  know  whether  they  were  imported  birds  or 
hatched  in  this  country  ?" 

"  No  ;  but  it  would  be  curious  if  they  were  hatched 
here.  It  would  indicate  an  instinct  beyond  explanation 
if  birds  should  build  nests  in  that  form  without  having 
been  taught  to  do  it,  or  without  having  seen  it  done.  Do 
you  suppose  that  the  child  of  ten  or  ten  hundred  genera- 
tions of  potters  would  know  how  to  make  an  earthenware 
plate  without  being  taught  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't.  But  we  are  apt  to  confound  instinct  and 
reason.  The  common  notion  that  brutes  do  not  reason 
is,  of  course,  erroneous.  The  possession  of  memory  alone 
does  not  imply  reason,  but  the  use  of  memory  for  com- 


BIRDS    AT    PRAYERS.  325 

parison,  or  for  judgment  and  decision,  is  necessarily  an 
act  of  reason.  There  are  few  domestic  animals  which  do 
not  exercise  reason  constantly.  Many  wild  animals  are 
very  sharp  reasoners." 

" Did  you  ever  detect  reason  in  a  trout?" 

"  Something  very  like  it,  but  not  so  clearly  indicated  as 
in  land  animals.  I  have  frequently  watched  trout  when 
swimming  in  groups,  as  they  often  do  in  small  lakes,  and 
where  thirty  or  forty  trout  are  leisurely  moving  around 
near  the  shores,  they  generally  have  two  or  more  guards, 
or  look-outs,  swimming  at  a  reasonable  distance  in  ad- 
vance, who  give  them  warning  of  any  visible  danger. 
This  and  other  habits  look  like  reason.  But  whether  fish 
have  any  means  of  communication  with  each  other  ex- 
cept by  sight,  I  confess  I  dare  not  say.  I  have  sometimes 
thought  a  trout  had  gone  down  stream  before  me  and 

told  the  community  to  look  out  for  an  enemy.  A 's 

birds  yonder  have  beyond  question  means  of  exchanging 
ideas." 

"  You  would  think  so  if  you  saw  them  at  prayers." 

«  Wha— at  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  at  prayers.  It  isn't  any  thing  less.  There  are 
birds  of  every  country  under  the  whole  heavens,  and  with 
voices  as  various  as  the  languages  of  men,  and  you  hear 
what  a  wild  concert  of  delight  they  keep  up  all  day  long. 
But  every  day  this  entire  group  of  birds  assemble  in  si- 
lence, and  if  it  isn't  a  prayer-meeting  I  don't  know  what 
it  is.  There  is  no  forewarning  that  we  can  detect.  While 
they  are  all  chattering,  singing,  playing  here,  there,  and 
every  where,  suddenly  one  of  them,  sometimes  one  and 
sometimes  another,  utters  a  peculiar  call,  totally  distinct 
from  his  ordinary  note.  Whatever  bird  it  is,  the  call  is 
much  the  same,  and  instantly  every  bird  stops  his  play 


326  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

and  his  noise.  They  gather  in  rows  on  the  perches, 
shorten  their  necks  so  as  almost  to  sink  their  heads  into 
their  feathers,  and  make  no  motion  of  wing,  head,  or  foot 
for  a  space  of  thirty  minutes,  and  often  longer." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  when  did  this  occur  ?" 

"  When  ?  I  tell  you  it  is  almost  a  daily  occurrence. 
Ordinarily  you  can  not  approach  the  aviary  without 
frightening  some  of  the  birds  and  producing  a  sharp  com- 
motion ;  but  while  this  exercise  is  going  on  nothing  dis- 
turbs them.  They  are  birds  of  every  land  and  climate  as 
you  see  ;  but  this  is  their  custom,  and  no  one  of  them  fails 
to  attend,  or  behaves  ill  in  meeting." 

"  Queer,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  More  than  queer.  It's  well  worth  studying ;  and  I 
sometimes  wonder  whether  birds  in  their  natural  condi- 
tion ever  do  the  same  thing.  You  may  think  it  some- 
thing like  mesmerism,  for  the  leader  keeps  up  his  curious 
call-note  throughout  the  service.  The  instant  it  is  ended 
they  break  up  with  a  shout  of  delight,  and  rush  around 
singing  and  having  a  jolly  time  of  it,  as  if  thoroughly  re- 
freshed. What's  your  theory,  Effendi  ?" 

"  I  haven't  a  theory.  It's  something  new  to  me.  I 
have  seen  birds  talking  to  one  another  many  a  time,  but 
I  never  heard  of  this  idea  before.  We  all  know  that 
dogs  tell  each  other  stories,  and  it's  beyond  dispute  that 
dogs  dream.  A  bee  that  has  found  honey  flies  off  and 
comes  back  with  all  the  hive.  I  have  often  seen  a  colt 
try  to  tell  a  calf  something,  but  the  calf  was  a  calf,  and 
couldn't  understand.  In  Egypt,  the  dogs  of  the  cities 
have  their  quarters,  and  keep  out  intruders  of  their  own 
species.  I  have  seen  droves  of  them  facing  one  another 
across  an  imaginary  line,  and  making  no  attack  except  as 
one  or  more  crossed  that  line,  then  the  whole  pack  would 


AMERICAN    ROMANCE.  327 

descend  on  the  aggressor  and  drive  him  back.  I  fancy 
that  the  life  of  a  horse  or  a  dog  might  be  as  interesting, 
if  all  its  emotions,  thoughts,  incidents,  and  dreams  were 
written  out — an  autobiography,  for  instance — as  the  lives 
of  millions  of  men  and  women  would  be.  For,  after  all, 
innumerable  men  live  and  die  without  enough  emotion 
or  incident,  without  enough  of  hope  or  passion,  to  supply 
material  for  a  single  day  to  men  like  us. 

"  Yes,  I  have  thought  thus  often  in  Italy,  the  land  of 
romance,  when  I  have  seen  miserable  peasant  women 
living  stupid  lives  among  old  glories.  We  speak  of  men 
living  like  brutes,  but  that  means  generally  their  external 
and  visible  life.  How  much  lower  than  brute  life  their 
mental  life  is  we  seldom  think.  The  gaily-dressed  and 
brilliant  peasant  girl  is  the  exception,  rarely  seen  even  in 
Italy ;  and  for  one  such  there  are  a  thousand  women 
there  who  from  childhood  to  old  age  and  the  grave  have 
never  known  an  emotion  of  great  joy  or  great  sorrow, 
who  do  not  even  feel  for  the  loss  of  children  so  much 
grief  as  a  bird  feels  at  the  death  of  a  fledgling.  There's 
a  difference  in  lives,  a  vast  difference;  and  in  our  coun- 
try among  the  higher  classes  the  same  differences  are 
noteworthy.  American  life  is  more  emotional  than  any 
other." 

"You  think  so?" 

"  I  don't  doubt  it.  Little  as  men  think  it,  there  is  more 
romance  in  our  ordinary  lives  here  in  America  than  in 
any  other  country,  ancient  or  modern,  of  which  we  have 
any  record.  There  is  not  only  more  of  the  '  rough  and 
tumble,'  more  adventure,  collision,  sudden  change,  part- 
ing and  meeting,  rapid  accession  and  loss  of  fortune, 
more  incident  and  accident,  but  the  inner  life  of  Ameri- 
cans is  more  romantic,  and  the  private  history  of  families 


328  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

is  more  full  of  strange  and  startling  occurrences.  We 
are  a  mixed  population,  made  up  from  all  nations ;  and 
the  most  lonesome  country  village  is  not  surprised  at  the 
arrival  of  a  Chinaman,  a  Kanaker,  an  Arab,  or  a  Parsee. 
We  are  great  travelers,  and  there  is  scarcely  a  country 
girl  in  the  land,  who  has  been  to  school  for  a  year,  who 
does  not  dream  of  going  to  Rome  and  Jerusalem.  And 
many  of  them  go." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Mrs.  Ward,  who  with  John  Steen- 
burger  came  out  to  the  piazza  at  this  moment  and  joined 
in  the  talk.  "  A  great  many  persons  imagine  that  Ameri- 
can life  is  so  very  commonplace  and  of  such  even  tenor 
that  romance  in  connection  with  it  is  scarcely  possible. 
But  there  is  evidence  enough  to  the  contrary.  Lady 
Hester  Stanhope's  life  and  death  are  generally  regarded 
as  making  up  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  records  of 
modern  times.  But  there  was  nothing  in  it  really  more 
romantic  than  in  the  life  of  your  old  friend  Roberts. 
Surely  that  poor  enthusiastic  American's  days  were  abun- 
dantly full  of  incident." 

"Who  was  he,  Effendi  ?     I  never  heard  of  him." 

"  A —  -  is  right.  Alfred  Roberts  was  a  man  whose 
name  deserves  to  be  remembered. 

"  I  met  him  first  some  years  ago  in  the  street  of  the 
Holy  Sepulchre  at  Jerusalem.  Passing  such  a  man  in 
such  a  place  startled  me.  We  did  not  speak;  and  I 
met  him  several  times,  wondering  whose  calm  pale  face 
and  gentle  eye  that  was  among  the  grim-visaged  Arabs. 

"One  evening,  when  I  was  seated  by  the  fire  in  my 
'hired  house'  on  the  Via  Dolorosa,  burning  sacred  olive- 
wood  from  the  mountain  of  the  Ascension,  and  talking 
with  my  friend  Righter  (who  now  sleeps  profoundly  at 
Diarbekir,  on  the  banks  of  the  Tigris),  the  old  man  came 


ALFRED    ROBERTS.  329 

in,  and  Righter,  who  knew  him,  made  us  acquainted.  I 
can  not  describe  to  you  the  tenderness  of  the  affection 
which  I  learned  to  feel  for  him  in  the  course  of  a  month, 
during  which  I  saw  him  almost  daily. 

"  He  was  a  man  of  rare  simplicity  of  character.  An  in- 
expressible gentleness  pervaded  his  whole  life. 

"  A  cooper  by  trade  in  America,  at  Mystic,  in  Connecti- 
cut, and  then  in  Chenango  County,  in  New  York,  he  had 
lived  to  be  an  old  man  when  he  conceived  the  idea  of 
devoting  his  life  to  distributing  the  Word  of  God,  without 
note  or  comment,  wherever  he  could  find  persons  to  re- 
ceive it.  He  had  no  property  or  means,  but  he  declined 
a  connection  with  any  society,  or  any  personal  pecuniary 
aid  so  long  as  he  was  able  to  work  for  himself.  He  ac- 
cepted money  to  be  used  in  purchasing  Bibles  and  Testa- 
ments, but  for  no  other  purpose.  He  worked  his  passage  to 
Liverpool,  thence  to  Malta,  thence  to  Constantinople,  and 
finally  to  Jerusalem.  The  journey  was  one  of  some  years, 
and  all  the  way  he  scattered  the  Word  of  God.  In  Malta, 
for  months,  he  devoted  himself  to  Italian  sailors,  and  he 
used  to  say,  truly  I  doubt  not,  that  he  had  sent  more 
Bibles  into  Italy,  by  fishermen  and  traders  at  Malta,  than 
all  the  Bible  and  Missionary  Societies  by  any  and  all 
othe"r  means.  In  Constantinople  the  American  residents 
collected  money  to  present  him  a  new  suit  of  clothes. 
He  declined  them  as  soon  as  he  heard  the  proposal,  ac- 
cepted the  donation  in  Bibles,  and  wore  his  gray  suit  to 
Jerusalem,  and  probably  never  had  another. 

"  His  faith  in  the  simple  Word  of  God  was  magnificent. 
It  was  his  whole  life. 

"  Walking  the  streets  of  the  Holy  City,  meeting  Greek 
and  Jew,  barbarian  and  Scythian,  bond  and  free,  he  knew 
no  language  but  his  mother  tongue,  yet  managed  to  hold 


33°  *    GO   A-FISHING. 

conversation  with  each,  and  to  win  the  admiration  and 
affection  of  all.  I  know  no  one  in  Jerusalem  who  did  not 
love  that  old  man.  The  monks  of  the  Terra  Santa,  many 
of  whom  I  knew  well,  had  pleasant  words  to  speak  of  him; 
Armenian  priests  looked  kindly  on  him.  I  don't  believe 
that  Mohammed  Dunnuf  himself,  the  principal  sheik  of 
the  Mosque  of  Omar,  ever  harbored  an  unkind  thought 
of  the  patient,  gentle  old  American,  or  that  a  Moham- 
medan boy  or  woman  who  knew  him  would  ever  spit 
curses  before  him  in  the  streets,  as  they  did  a  thousand 
times  at  me.  Pursuing  his  quiet  way,  he  walked  the 
streets  of  Jerusalem  year  after  year,  in  the  constant  labor 
of  love  to  which  he  had  devoted  his  life.  His  wants  were 
very  few,  and  his  expenses  a  mere  trifle.  In  1858,  he 
yielded  to  the  infirmities  of  age  and  disease,  and  then  lay 
for  three  years  on  his  bed,  in  the  same  room  in  a  hospi- 
tal on  Mount  Zion,  patiently  waiting  the  change. 

"  I  had  no  words  with  which  to  express  my  own  satisfac- 
tion when  I  heard  by  letter  from  the  United  States  con- 
sul at  Jerusalem  that  my  old  friend  had  at  last  reached 
the  Jerusalem  of  his  earnest  expectation.  No  more  weary 
climbing  up  the  sides  of  Olivet,  to  sit  down  sadly  on  the 
summit,  gazing  into  the  sky  which  there  received  out  of 
sight  his  ascended  Lord.  No  more  dark  nights  of  sleep- 
less pain  on  the  sides  of  Zion,  praying  for  the  coming  of 
the  Great  Physician  with  his  gift  of  rest ! 

"  I  know  where  they  buried  him,  for  the  last  time  I  was 
in  Jerusalem  I  went  to  his  grave  as  to  that  of  a  hero  and 
a  saint. 

"  Nowhere  on  earth  does  a  man  sleep  the  long  sleep  in 
such  company  as  at  Jerusalem. 

"  Outside  the  walls,  on  the  southern  slope  of  Zion,  beau- 
tiful for  situation  as  of  old,  there  is  a  little  English  burial- 


BURIAL   ON    MOUNT   ZION.  331 

place,  not  far  from  the  Greek  and  Latin  cemeteries.  In 
the  latter,  close  under  the  wall  of  the  city,  lies  Cornelius 
Bradford,  whom  many  old  New-Yorkers  knew  and  loved. 
I  know  not  that  any  other  American,  except  my  old  friend, 
sleeps  on  Mount  Zion ;  but  they  have  buried  him  in  that 
little  English  cemetery,  which  looks  toward  Bethlehem, 
overhanging  the  dark  valley  of  the  sons  of  Hinnom  and 
the  field  of  Aceldama.  In  that  valley  lie  myriads  on 
myriads  of  the  dead.  The  descendants  of  Abraham  for 
nearly  four  thousand  years  have  been  buried  under  the 
shadow  of  Moriah  and  Zion.  The  followers  of  the  camel 
driver  lie  there  in  hosts,  with  faces  turned  to  the  grave  of 
their  prophet.  In  the  old  tombs  on  the  hill-side,  the 
countless  dead  of  the  crusades,  with  thousands  of  pilgrims 
from  Christian  Europe,  are  heaped  in  ghastly  piles  of 
crumbling  skeletons.  The  followers  of  Alexander  the 
Great,  the  Roman  legions  of  Titus,  the  Persians  of  Chos- 
roes,  the  Moors  of  El-Hakim  the  mad  Caliph,  the  Norse- 
men of  Sigurd  the  Viking  Crusader,  men  of  every  land, 
by  millions,  lie  in  that  dark  valley  under  the  hill  of  David. 
Somewhere  there,  the  Psalmist  king  and  warrior  waits  to 
resume  his  crown  and  song.  Somewhere  there,  perhaps 
the  sister  of  Lazarus  rests  from  much  care  and  trouble, 
till  the  Master  cometh  again  and  calleth  for  her.  Not 
very  far  away,  Godfrey,  who  refused  to  wear  a  crown  of 
gold  where  his  Master  had  worn  a  crown  of  thorns,  and 
Baldwin  the  valiant,  lie  in  rock-hewn  tombs,  guarding 
the  way  to  Calvary. 

"  But  when  the  Lord  shall  come  '  in  like  manner'  as  he 
ascended  from  the  Mount  of  Olives,  and  the  dead,  small 
and  great,  shall  rise  around  Jerusalem,  I  doubt  not  that 
among  saints  and  princes  and  prophets  and  martyrs,  the 
calm  face  of  the  old  American  missionary  will  be  serenely 


332  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

fixed  on  the  face  of  his  Lord,  and  the  '  Well  done,  good 
and  faithful  servant,'  will  reach  no  ear  in  clearer  tones 
than  his. 

"  I  saw  him  last  standing  in  the  gateway  of  my  hired 
house  in  the  Via  Dolorosa,  looking  sadly  at  me  as  I 
mounted  my  horse  and  rode  down  the  filthy  street  on  my 
way  to  the  Damascus  Gate,  where  I  left  Jerusalem,  as  I 
then  thought,  forever.  It  will  be  pleasant  to  meet  my 
old  friend  on  the  shining  pavements  of  the  other  Jeru- 
salem. 

"  Yes,  Ward,  that  humble  life  rose  to  the  fullest  grand- 
eur. He  was  a  great  man,  and  his  story  needs  no  embel- 
lishment to  make  it  something  more  than  a  romance  of 
the  real  life  of  an  American." 

"Americans,"  said  John  Steenburger,  who  had  been 
hitherto  silent — "Americans  wander  a  great  deal  more 
than  their  countrymen  dream  of.  I  recollect  that  I  once 
had  my  attention  directed  to  this  with  reference  to  one 
little  village  in  New  England,  and  I  could  recall  no  less 
than  four  persons,  whom  I  had  met  in  Asia  and  Africa, 
who  were  wanderers  from  home,  settled  here  and  there 
among  Mohammedans,  all  four  from  that  village,  and  no 
one  of  them  near  or  knowing  of  another.  I  knew  a  girl 
once,  the  daughter  of  one  of  my  neighbors,  a  farmer  well 
to  do  in  the  world.  She  was  as  bright  and  lovely  a  child 
as  was  ever  known  in  that  part  of  the  country.  I  think 
I  might  say  that  she  was  as  beautiful  when  she  grew  up 
as  any  woman  that  any  of  you  have  ever  seen.  Those 
who  knew  her  best  believed  that  her  soul  was  as  pure  as 
the  spring  by  her  father's  door.  She  was  the  pet  of  all 
the  country,  and  her  admirers  were  innumerable.  Her 
education  was  good,  and  at  eighteen  she  was  sent  to  board- 
ing-school to  '  complete  it,'  as  they  call  it.  Once  in  a 


A    ROVING    GIRL.  333 

while  she  was  at  home  during  the  next  two  years,  and  to 
this  day  they  who  saw  her  tell  me  that  she  was  as  gentle 
and  lovely  as  ever  was  daughter  of  Eve ;  that  she  went 
back  to  school  with  reluctance  ;  that  she  parted  with  her 
father  in  an  agony  of  tears.  This  was  some  years  ago. 
I  have  seen  that  girl,  that  fair-haired  child  of  my  old 
neighbor,  a  ballet-dancer  on  the  boards  at  the  San  Carlo 
in  Naples;  and  when  I  sought  her  out  and  wanted  to  send 
her  home,  she  laughed  at  me,  and  ridiculed  the  idea  of 
going  home  to  the  old  farm-house." 

"What  became  of  her?" 

"  I  wish  I  knew.  The  old  man  never  asks  me  if  I  do 
know,  but  he  looks  so  wistfully  at  me  of  a  Sunday  in 
church  and  when  we  happen  to  meet  on  the  road,  that  I 
do  wish  I  had  some  intelligence  to  give  him  of  her,  if 
only  that  she  is  dead.  That  would  be  a  comfort.  I  saw 
her  again  once  under  odd  circumstances.  The  Effendi 
and  I  were  in  Alexandria,  at  the  Europa,  and  Caesare, 
the  landlord,  asked  us  one  morning  if  we  would  go  to  the 
opera  in  the  evening.  It  was  in  the  days  of  Said  Pasha, 
when  Egypt  had  not  as  yet  been  Europeanized,  as  Ismail 
calls  it.  An  opera  in  Egypt  struck  us  as  odd,  and  we 
said, '  Yes,  get  us  a  box  ;'  and  then  went  off  for  the  day  to 
the  Effendi's  excavations  in  the  catacombs.  In  the  even- 
ing, after  dinner,  we  had  forgotten  all  about  it ;  but  Caesare 
reminded  us,  and  we  started,  with  two  Arabs  carrying  lan- 
terns, to  find  the  opera-house  in  a  narrow  street.  As  we 
approached  we  saw  them  lighting  up  the  entrance,  and, 
after  a  delay  of  five  minutes  in  a  small  cloak-room,  we 
were  ushered  to  our  box.  I  give  you  my  word  we  two 
were  the  solitary  persons  in  the  house,  and  we  had  Lucia 
for  once  to  ourselves.  Was  it  not  so,  Effendi  ?" 

"  Exactly  so." 


334  I    Go    A-FISHING. 

"  The  company  was  small,  and  the  opera  was  cut  down ; 
but  you  may  imagine  my  surprise  when,  in  one  of  the  in- 
ferior parts,  I  recognized  the  daughter  of  my  neighbor. 
I  never  knew  whether  she  recognized  me.  It  was  a 
strange  affair  altogether.  I  sent  for  the  manager  the 
next  morning;  but  they  brought  me  word  that  the  com- 
pany was  only  a  lot  of  Italian  strollers,  and  had  sailed  for 
Smyrna  that  very  morning.  Effendi,  what  were  you  tell- 
ing me  about  a  girl  you  saw  in  the  East  last  winter  ?" 

"Only  another  example  of  American  wandering.  It 
was  not  any  one  that  I  knew,  but  it  shows  that  American 
girls  as  well  as  men  are  sometimes  rovers.  I  saw  a  very 
beautiful  girl  on  horseback  in  one  of  the  Oriental  cities, 
a  slight,  fragile-looking  creature,  a  pretty  face,  remarka- 
ble for  large  and  fine  eyes,  which  struck  you  as  very  sor- 
rowful in  their  expression.  She  rode  well.  I  met  her 
several  times.  You  will  not  often  see  a  more  attractive 
woman.  She  could  not  have  been  much  over  nineteen. 
Asking  about  her,  I  found  that  she  was  under  the  protec- 
tion of  a  well-known  Pasha,  but  she  was  not  one  of  his 
wives.  Poor  fool !  she  was  and  is  a  fool,  if  she  still  lives, 
for  her  fate  is  as  sure  as  the  succession  of  days.  Several 
men  of  credibility  and  position  told  me  that  she  was  an 
American  girl,  and  I  once  heard  her  speak  English  with 
a  decided  American  accent." 

"  There  is  romance  every  where.  A  little  incident  hap- 
pened to  the  Effendi  and  myself  last  summer  on  the  sea- 
shore. We  had  gone  down  for  a  few  days  of  sea-fishing, 
and  it  happened  that  the  little  hotel  was  suddenly  crowd- 
ed to  overflowing,  so  that  when  we  sat  down  at  the  supper- 
table  it  was  difficult  to  get  any  one  to  serve  us.  Look- 
ing for  a  waiter,  I  saw,  standing  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  table,  a  dark-faced  girl,  of  fourteen  or  thereabouts, 


MYSTERY   OF   AMAGANSET.  335 

who  was  staring  with  all  her  eyes,  and  doing  nothing.  I 
said, '  Will  you  give  me  some  milk  ?'  She  looked  at  me, 
but  didn't  move.  She  is  French,  I  said,  and  repeated  my 
request  in  French.  She  only  stared  the  more.  Try  her 
in  Italian,  said  the  Effendi;  and  he  tried  her  in  Italian, 
but  she  only  stared.  Then,  in  a  fit  of  laughing  despera- 
tion, I  growled  at  her  two  words  in  Arabic,  and  she  sprang 
for  the  milk,  with  a  bright  smile  on  her  face,  and  brought 
it.  Now  that  was  odd  enough  in  a  little  American  sea- 
shore inn,  ten  miles  from  a  railway.  But  it  was  explained 
very  simply  afterward.  She  was  a  Syrian  girl,  brought 
home  as  a  servant  by  an  American  lady  who  happened 
to  be  in  the  hotel,  and  had  sent  her  to  help  serve  the 
crowd.  Nevertheless,  you  have  the  foundation  for  a  ro- 
mance in  that  story." 

"While  you  are  on  the  subject  of  American  romances," 
said  Mrs.  Ward,  "  I'll  read  you  a  letter  from  the  Effendi 
himself,  written  some  years  ago,  when  we  had  been  at 
Montauk  together.  I  don't  vouch  for  the  truth  of  the 
story,  but  it  fits  the  subject.  Wait  till  I  go  and  find  it." 

So  we  smoked  in  silence,  and  the  twilight  grew  dark, 
and  at  length  Mrs.  Ward  returned,  and,  sitting  just  within 
the  long  window,  read  what  she  called 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  AMAGANSET. 

"We  left  Montauk  in  the  last  hours  of  a  delicious  sum- 
mer day.  As  we  crossed  the  plain  at  Fort  Pond  we  put 
up  the  largest  flock  of  plover  that  I  have  ever  seen,  and 
got  a  shot  into  them  at  a  long  distance,  which  added  six 
to  the  heap  already  covering  the  carriage-bottom.  The 
noise  of  their  flight  was  like  thunder,  scaring  the  cattle 
that  grazed  on  the  plain. 

"  The  sun  was  setting  as  we  passed  Stratton's,  and  we 


336  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

hastened  on  hoping  to  reach  Napeague  before  dark,  but 
the  gloom  overtook  us  before  we  passed  Osborn's  (the 
first  house),  and  by  the  time  we  reached  the  Mosquito 
Territory  it  was  profoundly  dark,  and  the  savages  had  it 
all  their  own  way. 

"  The  next  hour  was  fearful,  but  as  we  emerged  from 
its  horrors  on  the  heights  near  Amaganset,  a  cool  breeze 
revived  us,  and  the  first  light  of  that  village  cheered  us 
amazingly. 

"  '  Do  you  know  that  there  is  a  mystery  of  Amaganset?' 
demanded  Peter,  who  rode  with  the  driver,  and  smoked 
furiously  in  silence  all  across  Napeague. 

" '  No,'  exclaimed  the  party  unanimously  ;  '  do  you  ?' 

"  '  No,'  said  Peter  ;  and  the  smoke  increased  about  his 
cloudy  head. 

"'What  the  deuce  does  Peter  mean?'  suggested  the 
Squire,  in  a  low  voice. 

" '  I  mean  this,  that  Jonathan  Pierson  told  me  a  story 
once  about  some  Long  Island  village,  and  when  I  came 
through  Amaganset  the  other  day,  I  took  it  that  must  be 
the  place.  The  story  fits  there  anyhow.' 

" '  Give  us  the  story  and  let  us  fit  it  then,  oh  Peter.' 

"  Puff — puff — Peter  usually  pulls  hard  at  the  cigar  be- 
fore he  begins,  and  we  judged  correctly  that  he  would 
yield  to  our  entreaties.  And  at  length,  little  by  little, 
with  interruptions  to  relight  his  cigar,  we  got  the  substance 
of  it. 

"  Along  the  road  that  leads  to  the  beach  from  the  lone- 
some village  of (Peter  called  it  Amaganset,  and 

so  will  I,  and  no  Amaganset  man  need  trouble  himself 
to  say  it  didn't  happen  there)  lay  a  fine  farm,  in  old  times, 
owned  by  Stephen  Laton,  a  well-to-do  man  who  lived  in  a 
house  by  the  road-side,  with  a  wife  and  one  child.  All 


MYSTERY    OF    AMAGANSET.  337 

this  happened  a  great  while  ago,  so  that  the  story  is  more 
easily  to  be  credited. 

"  The  daughter,  Bessie  Laton,  was  a  beautiful  child,  and 
grew -up  to  be  a  very  beautiful  woman.  Contrary  to  the 
custom  in  those  days,  she  was  sent  away  to  be  educated, 
and  for  three  years,  from  her  fifteenth  to  her  eighteenth 
year,  she  was  in  New  York,  at  the  house  of  a  wealthy 
uncle,  who  was  to  leave  her  all  his  property  some  day. 

"  He  might  have  done  more  for  her  by  looking  more 
closely  after  her  life  then,  for  Bessie  was  no  child  even  in 
her  childish  years,  but  always  had  great  freedom  of  will, 
a  strong  determination,  and  more  than  her  share  of  self- 
reliance.  With  all  this  she  had  an  abounding  pride,  which 
had  always  stamped  her  character,  and  no  one  who  knew 
her  well  failed  to  see  that  she  had  ambition  which  would 
rest  at  nothing  short  of  the  highest  position  in  woman's 
empire.  She  loved  and  was  loved  by  all  the  village,  but 
she  lived  a  secret  life  of  dreams  and  hopes  and  self-prom- 
ises, which  her  city  life  afterward  helped  her  to  encourage. 

"  No  one  knew  what  she  did  in  those  three  years,  ex- 
cept that  her  step  grew  stately,  her  air  assumed  the  graces 
of  the  accomplished  lady,  and  after  all  she  came  home 
— to  her  sea-shore  home — a  changed  woman.  The  gay- 
ety  of  her  whole  character  seemed  to  be  lost,  and  a  sore 
and  terrible  secret  evidently  preyed  on  her  mind. 

"  In  this  secret  the  whole  village  was  interested ;  old 
wives  wondered  what  ailed  the  child,  and  old  men  shook 
their  heads  and  said  this  was  what  comes  of '  eddicating 
children.'  And  at  last  the  secret  was  half  told,  and  Bes- 
sie's name  was  the  by-word  of  the  town. 

"  To  her  mother  alone  she  said, '  I  am  married,  but  I 
can  not  tell  you  any  more  until  he  comes  himself  to  take 
me.'  The  shame  and  agony  in  which  her  life  now  burned 

'Y 


338  I    GO   A -FISHING. 

away  may  be  imagined  but  can  not  be  told.  Years  passed 
and  he  did  not  come.  Alone  in  the  cottage,  seldom  vent- 
uring beyond  its  walls,  she  dwelt  in  secret,  growing  every 
day  more  pale,  yet  every  day  more  beautiful.  Four  winters 
had  dashed  their  storms  on  the  Atlantic  coast,  and  a  fifth 
was  passing,  and  Bessie  was  dying  as  she  had  prayed  to  die. 

"  It  was  a  wild  December  night,  and  there  was  danger 
of  a  wreck  on  the  coast,  to  which  all  the  villagers  had 
gone.  The  guns  had  been  heard  booming  all  the  day 
previous,  and  they  said  she  would  go  ashore  on  the  half 
flood,  and  be  beyond  the  help  of  man. 

"  In  the  house  of  Stephen  Laton  the  mother  and  daugh- 
ter were  seated,  as  in  many  a  winter  night  before,  by  the 
great  fire  that  blazed  up  the  chimney,  silent  mostly,  yet 
once  in  a  while  lifting  their  eyes  each  to  the  other's  coun- 
tenance. There  was  a  strange  resemblance  in  the  two 
women,  though  one  was  old  and  haggard,  and  the  other 
young  and  beautiful.  The  likeness  was  doubtless  in  the 
prevailing  expression  of  woe  that  looked  out  of  both  their 
eyes,  as  they  gazed  silently  and  steadfastly  into  the  flash- 
ing fire  and  listened  to  the  roaring  tempest. 

"  '  Mother,'  said  Bessie,  springing  to  her  feet  at  length, 
with  a  cry  of  anguish — '  Mother,  pray  God  to  let  me  die.' 

" '  Patience,  Bessie,  my  child,  patience.' 

"  '  Patience,  mother  !  I  have  been  patient  four  years — 
I  am  patient — but  I  would  to  God  I  were  lying  out  yon- 
der in  the  old  grave-yard,  with  all  the  old  folk  and  young 
folk  of  all  the  graves,  instead  of  being  here  to-night !' 

"  She  was  magnificent  as  she  stood  there,  her  long 
white  night-robe  buttoned  to  her  throat  and  flowing  to 
her  feet,  as  she  clasped  her  hands  and  looked  up  to  heav- 
en. Certainly  she  was  very  beautiful,  with  the  beauty  of 
approaching  death. 


MYSTERY    OF   AMAGANSET.  339 

"  The  tramp  of  men  disturbed  the  scene,  as  they 
brought  in  a  body  from  the  wreck.  Bessie  passed  into 
the  inner  room,  whither  in  a  moment  her  mother  brought 
in  her  stout  arms  the  form  of  a  young,  slender,  fair- 
haired  girl,  whose  face  of  very  delicate  beauty  was  now 
almost  heavenly  in  what  seemed  at  first  the  peace  of 
death. 

"  They  laid  her  in  Bessie's  bed,  and  in  an  hour  by  dili- 
gent care  had  succeeded  in  restoring  animation  if  not 
consciousness.  Once  she  had  murmured  '  Philippe,' 
and  Bessie  sprang  up  with  a  flush  on  her  countenance 
at  the  sound,  but,  sinking  back  with  a  half-suppressed 
moan,  continued  her  exertions  in  silence. 

"  In  the  mean  time  the  bodies  of  several  men  were 
brought  into  the  old  kitchen.  Among  them  was  one 
richly  dressed,  and  bearing  marks  of  rank  and  wealth,  for 
those  were  days  when  travelers  wore  more  of  the  insignia 
of  position  than  now.  He  was  young  and  strong,  and  it 
was  manifest  that  he  was  not  dead.  But  a  strange  stu- 
por, whether  of  cold  or  otherwise,  had  taken  possession 
of  him,  and  he  lay  motionless  on  the  floor  before  the  fire, 
until  a  sharp  cry  from  the  inner  room  reached  his  be- 
numbed senses. 

"  The  lady  had  at  length  opened  her  eyes,  and  a  sense 
of  her  position  slowly  dawned  on  her  intellect.  A  few 
questions  in  French,  which  Bessie  understood  and  an- 
swered, sufficed  to  explain  all,  and  then  she  wailed  aloud 
in  the  perfect  abandonment  of  woe — 

"'Philippe,  mon  Philippe!  oh  Mon  Dieu,  il  est  mort ; 
mon  ame,  mon  cceur,  mort,  mort !'  and  she  sank  back 
fainting  on  the  pillow. 

"  He  heard  that  cry,  and  rose  to  his  feet.  At  first,  for 
an  instant,  he  seemed  to  be  confused,  but  the  next  mo- 


340  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

ment  the  whole  truth  crossed  his  mind,  and,  with  a  courtly 
bow  to  those  who  surrounded  him,  he  said, '  I  understand 
all.  Pardon  me.  It  is  I  that  am  wanted' — and  without 
further  parley  stalked  into  the  room  where  the  two  girls 
lay  side  by  side. 

"  '  Oh,  God,  it  is  he  ! — it  is  he  !'  shrieked  the  unknown, 
in  a  voice  of  extremest  joy,  and,  reaching  out  her  two 
hands  to  him  with  a  smile,  relapsed  into  unconsciousness. 

"  Seeing  two  persons  on  the  bed  where  he  had  thought 
to  see  but  one,  he  hesitated. 

"  '  I  beg  pardon — 

"  At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  Bessie  Laton  leaned  forward 
suddenly  and  looked  into  his  countenance.  No  one  may 
hope  to  describe  the  gleam  that  flashed  across  her  face 
as  she  spoke  one  word — 

"'Philip!' 

"  '  Bessie  !  Bessie  !'  said  he,  staggering,  rather  than 
rushing  forward,  and  then  he  fell  on  the  floor  by  the  bed- 
side, his  hands  seizing  and  his  lips  kissing  the  folds  of 
her  garment  that  swept  across  the  feet  of  the  dead  girl 
who  lay  beside  her. 

"  '  Philip,  is  it  you  at  last — my  husband,  my  beloved. 
Have  you  come  at  last  to  see  me  die  ?' 

"  '  Die  !  Who  talks  of  death  ?  Marie,  Marie.  Bessie, 
wake  her,  speak  to  her — rouse  her — she  is  cold.  Did 
you  say  dead  ?  Dead  ?' 

" '  What  mean  you,  Philip  ?     Who  is  this  ?' 

"  <  This !     She  is  Marie,  Marie.' 

"'And  what  to  you?' 

"  '  To  me  ?     She  is  my — my — my — ' 

"  '  Philip  !  Speak  not  the  word ;  wife  or  what,  I  care 
not.  I  see  all  now.  Silence,  I  say !  They  have  called 
me  by  the  name  you  have  given  that  child  !  Oh  wretch- 


MYSTERY    OF    AMAGANSET.  341 

ed  man  !  Know  you  not  that  having  left  me  to  bear  the 
agony  of  that  curse  falsely  was  enough,  but  you  must  give 
the  foul  name  to  her  too  ?  Philip,  I  have  it  in  my  heart 
to  curse  you.  I  know  not  whether  I  should  pray  God  to- 
night to  damn  you  for  your  sin  or  no.  I  love  you,  I  love 
you,  Philip,  and  I  hate  you  too.' 

"  She  glared  at  him  with  her  fierce  black  eyes,  and  he 
was  silent,  but  looked  at  her. 

"  '  Aye,  look  at  me — your  wreck,  your  ruin.  See  you 
this  cheek — you  kissed  it,  loved  to  kiss  it.  It  will  be  food 
for  worms  next  spring.  God  knows  if  it  be  not  next  week  ! 
See  these  arms.  How  you  loved  their  clasp,  and  yet  you 
wandered  off  from  them,  and  sought  embraces  elsewhere, 
and  forgot  them.  What  delights  those  were,  oh  Philip  ! 
Have  you  had  such  with  this  frail  child  ?  Did  you  love 
her,  Philip  ?  I  love  her  too,  for  this,  that  she  loved  you, 
and  was  betrayed  by  you.  Did  she  know  that  you  had  a 
wife,  or  did  she  think  her  cheek  the  first  that  ever  lay  on 
your  breast  ?  Did  you  ever  tell  her  of  me  ?' 

"  She  paused  and  glared  at  him  more  fiercely,  and  he 
was  silent  still.  Only  a  hoarse  murmur  as  if  he  would 
speak  escaped  his  lips,  but  he  had  not  yet  spoken. 

"  '  And  yet  I  love  you,  Philip.  I  love  you  !  I  that  am 
dying  say  it  again,  again.  Dying — oh  God,  is  this  life  ! 
I  prayed  just  now  for  death,  and  now  I  pray  to  live,  for  I 
have  found  him  !  found  him  in  the  arms  of  another,  but 
what  of  that !  I  would  tear  him  out  of  the  arms  of  an 
angel — and  clasp  him  to  my  own  heart  to  be — as  he  is — 
mine— my  own.  Philip,  you  have  killed  me.  But — but 
— but — lay  your  head  here  once  more,  once  more,  my 
husband !' 

"  She  reached  her  arms  out  to  him,  and  he  threw  him- 
self across  the  dead  form  of  the  French  girl,  into  the  em- 


342  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

brace  that  waited  him.  Their  lips  met,  and  they  were  si- 
lent while  life  grew  to  immortality  of  joy  in  that  long  kiss, 
and  then  there  was  a  cold  shudder  in  her  frame — a  re- 
laxing of  the  clasp — a  strange  fierce  smile  on  her  face — 
and  they  carried  him  away. 

"  She  did  not  die  till  two  or  three  weeks  later,  but  she 
never  knew  father,  mother,  or  husband  again. 

"  Who  he  was  no  one  ever  knew,  for  his  lips  were  sealed, 
though  he  watched  by  her  until  she  died.  Then  he  dis- 
appeared, and  the  people  for  years  after  that  wondered 
over  the  story.  A  stone  by  her  grave  rescued  her  name 
from  infamy,  though  its  story  was  brief  and  indefinite. 
But  the  villagers  readily  believed  good  of  one  they  had 
loved  so  well,  and  it  was  even  whispered  by  some  that 
the  husband  of  Bessie  Laton  was  a  king's  son. 

"Years  afterward,  one  of  those  wandering  sons  of  Long 
Island,  who  are  to  be  found  wherever  the  traveler  has 
gone,  was  in  the  presence  of  a  monarch  whose  name  is 
known  in  history  and  story.  That  traveler,  though  but  a 
boy  when  Bessie  Laton  died,  remembered  with  perfect 
clearness  the  face  of  her  husband,  and  he  now  saw  it 
once  more.  But  the  position  of  the  tall  and  stately  man, 
with  dark  face  and  downcast  eye,  standing  on  the  right 
hand  of  his  sovereign,  forbade  any  attempt  to  remind  him 
then  and  there  of  the  tempestuous  night  when  he  found 
his  betrayed  and  deserted  wife  dying  on  the  shore  of 
Long  Island. 

"  You  may  well  believe  that  Peter's  story  lasted  till  we 
reached  Easthampton.  Now  don't  let  any  Long-Islander 
bother  you  by  doubting  this  story,  and  disputing  Peter's 
facts.  It  happened  somewhere  if  it  did'nt  on  Long  Isl- 
and, at  least  Peter  says  so,  and  who  can  tell  how  many 
and  what  secrets  the  grave-yards  of  the  old  country  vil- 


JOHN    LEDYARD.  343 

lages  keep  low  under  ground  !  What  red  lips,  could  they 
open  in  the  dust,  would  tell  love  tales !  What  forms, 
could  they  move,  would  nestle  in  the  clasps  of  love,  those 
close  embraces  of  which  the  grave  itself  and  decay  and 
dust  can  hardly  bar  the  memory !  What  thin  old  lips 
would  whisper  stories  of  youth  and  passion  and  madness." 

"  Is  that  all  of  it,  Mrs.  Ward  ?" 

"All." 

"  Is  it  true  ?" 

"  Ask  the  Effendi." 

"  How  much  of  it  is  founded  on  fact,  old  man  ?" 

"  Upon  my  word,  John,  if  any  one  but  A had  said 

it,  I  wouldn't  believe  I  ever  wrote  the  letter.  I  remem- 
ber nothing  about  it.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  do  remem- 
ber—  talking  about  wandering  Americans — and  that  is 
how  I  once  hunted  in  Cairo  for  the  grave  of  John  Led- 
yard,  whose  life  was  of  the  most  romantic  kind.  I  always 
had  a  boy's  admiration  of  him,  and  the  first  time  I  went 
to  Cairo  I  had  it  prominently  in  mind  to  see  his  last  rest- 
ing-place. It  didn't  occur  to  me  that  I  should  have  any 
trouble  in  finding  it. 

"  I  had  thought  of  taking  a  walk  around  the  city,  and 
calling  at  three  or  four  places  to  make  inquiries ;  and  in 
my  ignorance  I  had  supposed  that  an  hour's  inquiry  here 
and  there  would  soon  determine,  one  way  or  the  other, 
whether  I  could  accomplish  my  object. 

"  My  wish  was  a  pious  one.  I  believe  that  all  Amer- 
icans feel  some  interest  in  it,  though  I  am  not  aware  that 
any  one  had  before  made  the  attempt  that  I  made  to 
gratify  it. 

"  From  childhood  I  had  heard  Ledyard's  name  men- 
tioned frequently  in  the  family,  as  a  relative  and  friend  of 


344  !    Go    A -FISHING. 

my  father's  father,  and  his  letters  to  his  mother,  few  of 
which  have  been  published,  had  formed  my  study  when- 
ever I  could  get  hold  of  the  dim  old  manuscripts.  I  had 
a  boyish  veneration  for  his  name  and  memory,  and  as  I 
grew  older  I  studied  much  his  bold  and  ambitious  char- 
acter. It  was  my  pleasure  to  trace  his  eventful  history 
from  that  adventurous  voyage  down  the  Connecticut  in 
his  canoe,  through  all  its  devious  ways  around  the  world, 
up  to  the  moment  when  a  dark  veil  is  suddenly  drawn 
across  it  and  the  eye  can  no  longer  follow  it. 

"  It  was  in  Cairo  that  he  died  :  no  one  knows  where, 
or  how.  The  biographies  of  him  are  brief  in  their  ac- 
counts, and  the  private  information  which  is  possessed  in 
the  family  is  quite  as  brief.  It  is  understood  only  that  he 
was  taken  sick  while  waiting  to  commence  his  voyage  up 
the  Nile,  and  that  he  lay  in  one  of  the  convents,  then  the 
only  places  in  which  Christian  strangers  found  shelter, 
and  finally  died,  alone  or  attended  only  by  unknown 
priests. 

"  None  who  have  studied  his  ambitious  but  gentle  and 
affectionate  character  could  fail  to  be  interested  in  the 
obscurity  which  surrounds  his  last  moments,  or  to  imag- 
ine the  visions  of  his  home  that  must  have  haunted  his 
dying  couch.  The  sounds  of  early  years,  the  roar  of  the 
Connecticut,  the  bell  of  the  chapel  in  college,  the  surf  on 
the  beach  of  Long  Island,  the  wind  among  the  pine-trees 
over  his  mother's  house,  all  these  doubtless  disturbed  (or 
did  they  calm  ?)  his  fevered  brain.  If  he  spoke  any  thing 
in  his  delirium,  it  must  have  been  of  the  great  name  he 
was  to  win  for  himself  in  his  life  of  bold  travels,  of  the 
bitterness  of  death  now  when  his  brightest  dreams  were 
to  be  realized,  of  hope  and  ambition  disappointed,  and 
with  these  he  mingled,  as  always  before  he  was  accus- 


OLD    CAIRO.  345 

tomed  to  do,  affectionate  words  for  the  few  that  he  loved 
as  his  own  soul.  But  of  all  this  no  record  remains  ;  nor 
is  it  known  whose  hand  closed  his  eyes,  and  composed 
his  weary  limbs,  which  after  long  travel  had  at  length  found 
rest.  All  this  I  thought  to  inquire  about,  but  I  had  little 
hope  of  success  when  I  knew  more  of  Cairo. 

"  If  in  a  convent,  Ledyard  probably  died  in  one  of  the 
Latin,  Greek,  or  Coptic  convents,  for  there  are  more  than 
one  of  each  in  or  near  Cairo. 

"  In  the  Latin  I  caused  inquiries  to  be  made,  but  with- 
out success.  There  were  no  books,  no  records,  no  old 
men,  no  one  who  could  furnish  any  information  on  any 
subject  later  than  eighteen  hundred  years  ago.  Elsewhere 
I  conducted  my  own  inquiries. 

"We  mounted  the  donkeys  one  morning,  and  rode  to 
an  Armenian  church,  which  stands  in  a  cemetery  about  a 
mile  from  the  city. 

"  Winding  our  way  for  two  miles  through  the  dark  nar- 
row passages  which  pass  for  streets,  we  emerged  at  the 
gate  that  leads  to  old  Cairo,  and  cantering  along  the  road 
in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  donkeys,  camels,  women  with 
fruit,  children  carrying  melons  as  large  as  their  heads  on 
the  top  of  them,  men  riding  donkeys  they  could  much 
easier  have  carried,  beggars  in  troops,  and  Bedouins  in- 
numerable, we  at  length  reached  the  church  and  entered 
it.  The  style  of  the  interior  was  a  remote  imitation  of 
European  churches  ;  but  it  was  a  small,  meagre,  and  un- 
interesting affair,  and,  having  glanced  at  its  paintings,  I 
addressed  myself  to  my  business.  Vain  attempt.  The 
attendant  was  an  old  man,  but  he  never  heard  of  an 
American  dying  there,  and  there  were  no  books  nor  rec- 
ords— nothing  whatever.  I  might  as  well  have  inquired 
in  Paris.  So  I  went  on  down  the  road  to  old  Cairo. 


346  I    GO    A- FISHING. 

"  Old  Cairo  is  three  miles  from  modern  Cairo.  The 
desert  sand  stretches  between  them.  As  you  approach 
the  old  city,  riding  over  the  sand-hills,  you  will  perceive 
several  miniature  cities — small  dense  masses  of  houses, 
presenting  only  a  blank  wall  to  the  outside  view,  through 
which  a  low  arched  door-way  or  heavily  barred  gate  gives 
admission  to  the  lanes  or  streets  of  a  densely  populated 
village.  Imagine  a  hundred  houses  packed  closely  to- 
gether, with  no  streets,  but  only  passages,  four  to  eight  or 
ten  feet  wide,  winding  around  among  them.  Such  are 
these  settlements  of  Egyptian  Christians.  Fully  protected 
against  Bedouins  by  their  lofty  walls,  they  have  but  to 
close  the  gates  against  an  attack  and  go  to  sleep  in  their 
houses.  It  was  such  a  place  as  this  before  which  I  drew 
rein,  and  we  dismounted  and  entered.  A  bright-looking 
little  girl  was  the  porteress,  and  led  us  in.  We  asked  her 
the  way  to  the  church  of  the  Greeks.  She  would  show 
us :  so  we  followed  her  up  one  alley  and  down  another, 
up  a  long  flight  of  stone  steps,  up  another  longer,  across 
a  marble  pavement,  up  another  and  a  fourth  flight  of 
steps,  and  she  then  called  aloud  and  left  us  in  the  room 
alone.  It  was  three  stories  from  the  ground,  and  while 
we  wondered  where  we  were  a  young  priest  advanced, 
and  with  a  huge  key  opened  a  door  before  us,  and  we 
found  ourselves  in  the  Church  of  St.  George.  It  was  a 
strange  and  curious  looking  little  chapel,  hung  around  with 
pictures  that  might  have  been  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
so  quaint  and  intensely  horrible  were  they.  Men  with 
giant  heads  and  figures  disproportioned  stared  on  us 
from  the  panels,  but  there  was  nothing  to  interest  us,  and, 
after  a  brief  glance,  I  proceeded  to  make  my  inquiries. 

"A  more  stupid  specimen  of  humanity  one  could  hardly 
find,  and  yet  he  was  not  so  stupid  looking.  But  it  was  in 


A   GREEK    DECEIVER.  347 

vain  that  I  endeavored  to  ascertain  any  thing  about  the 
American  traveler.  He  was  unable  to  tell  me  any  thing, 
and  I  doubt  whether  he  knew  of  such  a  place  as  America. 
I  asked  him  to  go  into  the  convent  and  bring  me  any 
books  that  they  had.  He  produced  some  old  manuscript 
Prayer-books,  but  nothing  of  value,  and  I  gave  it  up  in 
disgust.  I  asked  him  if  there  were  not  any  of  the  other 
priests  that  could  possibly  give  me  some  information.  He 
said  '  No;  there  was  no  one  that  knew  any  thing  about  it.'' 
'  No  old  men  ?'  '  None.'  I  knew  he  lied,  but  what  could 
I  do  ?  We  wanted  to  find  the  way  to  the  Coptic  church, 
which  we  knew  to  be  near  by,  and  within  the  same  walls. 
The  one  we  particularly  wished  to  find  is  the  oldest,  and 
is  said  to  cover  a  grotto  in  which  Mary  and  Joseph,  with 
the  infant  Savior,  rested  and  lived  while  in  Egypt.  We 
asked  him  to  direct  us.  Here  stupidity  vanished,  and  de- 
ceit and  lying  took  its  place.  Be  it  known  that  he  and  his 
sect  deny  the  authenticity  of  this  Coptic  grotto.  Hence 
his  unwillingness  to  direct  us  to  it.  He  said  he  had  never 
heard  of  such  a  place.  '  But  it  is  near  here?'  '  No,  it  is 
not.  There  is  no  such  place.  Joseph  and  Mary  never 
were  in  Cairo.'  '  But  there  is  such  a  place,  and  it  is  close 
to  this  spot.'  He  did  not  know  of  any  Joseph  that  was 
ever  in  Cairo  but  Joseph  Saladin,  and  perhaps  it  was 
Joseph's  Well  we  were  looking  for.  That  was  at  the  cit- 
adel in  Cairo.  By  this  time  we  saw  the  fellow's  drift,  and 
we  gave  him  a  chance  to  practice  lying.  We  cross-ex- 
amined him,  and  he  added  denial  to  denial,  and  we  left 
him. 

"  Not  a  hundred  yards  from  him,  in  the  same  village,  we 
found  the  church,  the  little  girl  leading  us.  The  old  and 
dirty  Arab  who  opened  it  for  us  to  enter  was  the  poorest 
specimen  of  a  sexton  I  had  ever  seen.  He  had  not 


348  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

strength  enough  to  help  bury  a  ghost.  But  he  showed 
us  the  church,  and  under  its  pavement  the  grotto,  into 
which  we  descended.  It  was  possibly  an  early  chapel- 
one  of  those  subterranean  places  of  worship  used  by  the 
Christians  in  years  that  are  now  forgotten,  and  over  which 
they  afterward  built  their  church.  But  there  is  no  ev- 
idence even  of  this,  nor  is  there  book  or  record  of  past 
years  by  which  to  determine  even  the  period  when  the 
structure  above  the  ground  was  built. 

"Tradition  says  that  it  is  as  old  as  the  days  of  the  Em- 
peror Diocletian,  and  Wilkinson  describes  an  inscription 
of  that  date  somewhere  in  the  community  which  is  in- 
closed within  these  walls ;  but  we  could  not  find  it.  Nor 
could  we  find  the  tomb  of  Ledyard,  nor  trace  of  it.  The 
miserable  old  keeper  of  the  church  showed  me  a  pile  of 
manuscript  books,  but  they  were  only  Coptic  forms  of 
worship.  He  held  out  a  plate  for  bucksheesh  as  we  came 
out  of  the  door,  which  we  deposited,  whereupon  he  dropped 
the  plate  and  held  out  his  hand  for  some  on  private  ac- 
count, assuring  us  that  the  former  donation  was  purely  for 
the  public.  We  begged  him  to  take  his  share  out  of  the 
public  account,  and  putting  our  sticks  across  the  backs 
of  twenty  beggars  who  denied  us  exit,  escaped  into  the 
air,  having  accumulated  such  quantities  of  fleas  as  tor- 
mented us  till  night-time.  The  garden  of  the  Greek  con- 
vent remained  to  be  seen,  for  here  in  former  years  the 
Greeks  were  accustomed  to  sell  graves  to  English  Chris- 
tians. But  it  was  also  their  custom  to  sell  the  same 
graves  over  and  over  again,  so  that  no  certainty  of  re- 
pose was  guaranteed  by  the  purchase.  Alas  for  Led- 
yard !  He  was  not  rich,  and  I  doubt  much  if  any  one 
was  with  him  when  he  died  who  would  have  paid  a 
price  for  a  burial-place  for  him  when  all  the  desert 


LEDYARD'S  GRAVE.  349 

lay  unbought  around  Cairo.  And  if  he  was  buried  here 
he  was  disturbed  long  since  to  make  room  for  his  suc- 
cessors. 

"  My  search  was  vain.  I  continued  it  persistently. 
Through  various  persons  in  Cairo  I  attempted  to  institute 
inquiries,  but  the  answer  was  always  the  same.  No  one 
remembered  him,  none  of  the  old  men  had  any  recollec- 
tion of  his  death,  no  books  remain  to  speak  of  him,  no 
record  was  made,  or  if  made,  none  was  kept  of  that  pe- 
riod, and  I  believe  I  may  consider  it  settled  that  the 
grave  of  Ledyard  will  never  be  found  until  He  finds  it 
who  will  lose  no  one  in  the  awakening. 

"  There  was  one  other,  and  but  one  other,  direction  to 
look  for  his  resting-place,  and  that  was,  I  believe,  the 
place  where  it  is  most  probable  that  he  lies. 

"  Around  the  walls  of  Cairo  roll  the  waves  of  desert 
sand.  When  you  pass  out  of  the  gates  to  the  eastward, 
the  instant  you  leave  the  city  you  look  back  at  the  walls 
and  gates,  and  before  and  around  you  at  the  desert. 
There  are  no  suburbs.  But  on  these  hills  of  sand  lie  the 
dead  Moslems.  Thousands  and  hundreds  of  thousands, 
millions  of  men  lie  in  this  dust,  awaiting  the  coming  of 
the  angel.  Here  lie  a  hundred  thousand  men  that  heard 
the  war-cry  of  Richard  Cceur  cle  Lion ;  here  lie  a  hun- 
dred thousand  men  that  saw  the  face  of  Louis  the  Saint ; 
here  lie  hosts  of  those  that  fled  before  the  arm  of  God- 
frey. And  from  those  days  to  this  the  dead  of  Cairo  have 
lain  down  in  the  dust  around  their  city  walls,  calmly  con- 
fident that  they  will  not  oversleep  the  day  when  they  shall 
meet  their  prophet. 

"  I  stood  on  one  of  the  hills  and  saw  the  sun  set,  and  I 
imagined  for  one  instant  the  scene  which  would  be  pre- 
sented to  the  eye  if  the  covering  could  be  thrown  back 


35°  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

and  the  graves  exposed  to  view,  and  I  shrank  in  horror 
from  the  ghastly  vision. 

"  But  somewhere  here  I  think  the  tired  traveler  found 
repose,  and  I  trust  will  find  it  undisturbed.  It  were  bet- 
ter to  sleep  thus,  with  all  the  old  dead  of  a  thousand 
years,  than  to  sleep  in  a  bought  grave  at  the  mercy  of  a 
Greek  Christian.  To  him  it  was  terrible  to  die  thus.  To 
no  man  did  death  ever  come  with  more  of  terror.  But  I 
doubt  not  that  when  his  stout  soul  fully  realized  the  pres- 
ence of  the  dread  angel  he  thought  that,  after  all,  next  to 
the  church-yard  at  his  home,  where  his  mother's  eye  would 
look  on  his  grave  till  she  slept  by  his  side,  this  sleep  in 
the  sands  of  the  Arabian  desert,  on  the  banks  of  the  lordly 
Nile,  was  what  he  would  have  chosen  who  had  seen  all 
the  world  to  choose  from." 

"  We  have  talked  enough  of  wandering  Americans," 
said  Ward.  "  Let  us  go  in  and  have  some  music." 

And  we  went  into  the  large  room,  which  Kensett  and 
Church  and  Mignot  and  Haseltine  and  Casilear  and 
other  friends  of  my  friend  had  helped  to  adorn  and  make 

cheery ;  and  Dr.  C came  over  from  the  parsonage. 

and  we  discussed  original  sin  and  trout,  Shakespeare  and 
Miss  Braddon,  Bernard  of  Clugny  and  Bret  Harte,  and 
so  the  evening  passed  into  night,  and  the  Ferns  fell  asleep 
along  toward  the  breaking  of  the  next  May  morning. 


XVII. 

GOING  HOME. 

THE  sun  has  gone  down.  The  stars  are  beginning  to 
be  visible.  The  breeze  has  died  away,  and  there  is  no 
ripple  on  the  lake,  nor  any  sound  in  the  tree-tops.  Let 
us  go  home. 

The  contentment  which  fills  the  mind  of  the  angler  at 
the  close  of  his  day's  sport  is  one  of  the  chiefest  charms 
in  his  life.  He  is  just  sufficiently  wearied  in  body  to  be 
thoughtful,  and  the  weariness  is  without  nervousness,  so 
that  thoughts  succeed  each  other  with  deliberation  and 
calm,  not  in  haste  and  confusion.  The  evening  talk  after 
a  day  of  fishing  is  apt  to  be  memorable.  The  quiet 
thinking  on  the  way  home  is  apt  to  be  pleasant,  delicious, 
sometimes  even  sacred. 

I  am  not  sure  but  that  many  anglers  remember  with 
more  distinctness  and  delight  their  going  home  after  days 
of  sport  than  the  spor.t  itself.  Certainly  the  strongest 
impressions  on  my  own  mind  are  of  the  last  casts  in  the 
twilight,  the  counting  of  the  day's  results  on  the  bank  of 
lake  or  river,  the  homeward  walk  or  ride,  and,  best  of  all, 
the  welcome  home.  For  the  sportsman's  home  is  where 
his  heart  is;  and  most  earnestly  do  I  recommend  all  lovers 
of  the  rod  to  find  their  sport,  if  they  can  do  so,  where 
they  can  be  accompanied  by  wives  and  daughters,  even 
by  children.  On  this  account,  if  on  no  other,  every  one 


352  I    GO   A-FISHING. 

must  be  glad  to  see  the  formation  of  clubs  whose  arrange- 
ments include  accommodation  for  the  families  of  members. 

There  is  no  more  graceful  and  healthful  accomplishment 
for  a  lady  than  fly-fishing,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  a 
lady  should  not  in  every  respect  rival  a  gentleman  in  the 
gentle  art. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  a  day  along  one  of  the  Connecticut 
streams,  of  which  I  have  spoken  in  this  volume,  when 
four  of  us — a  lady,  two  boys,  and  myself — took  a  superb 
basket  of  trout,  and  the  lady  beat  us  all  ?  What  a  sur- 
prise it  was  when  I  saw  her,  far  off  across  a  meadow, 
standing  alone,  with  her  light  rod  bending  as  she  gave 
the  butt  to  a  strong  fish,  to  keep  him  from  a  last  rush 
down  the  rapid  !  I  hastened  to  her  assistance,  but  it  was 
useless  ;  for  before  I  reached  her  he  lay  on  the  grass,  two 
pounds  and  three  quarters  exactly,  the  noblest  trout  I  ever 
saw  taken  from  a  Connecticut  brook. 

Make  your  home,  therefore,  as  near  as  may  be  to  your 
sport,  so,  at  the  least,  that  you  may  always  find  it  when 
the  day  is  done. 

I  have  described  in  this  book  a  mountain  lake,  among 
the  Franconia  hills,  which  is  not  known  to  many  anglers. 
As  I  approach  the  last  pages  of  the  volume,  I  recall,  from 
among  a  thousand  scenes,  with  especial  vividness,  memo- 
ries of  that  lake.  I  could  easily  tell  why  these  memories 
are  so  clear,  but  the  reasons  concern  only  myself,  and  all 
anglers  have  their  peculiar  reasons  for  best  loving  memo- 
ries of  certain  waters. 

My  last  day's  sport  one  summer  ended  with  a  glorious 
evening  there.  We — Dupont  and  myself — had  recon- 
structed two  old  rafts  of  logs  and  brush,  which  we  had 
abandoned  once  before  as  water-logged,  but  now  found, 
floating  indeed,  but  so  deep  that  it  was  necessary  to  cut 


FISHING    UNDER    DIFFICULTIES.  353 

pine  boughs  and  heap  on  them  to  give  us  footing  out  of 
water.  The  situation  of  the  lake  renders  it  very  lovely, 
as  well  as  very  lonely.  I  have  already  described  it. 

It  lies  in  a  basin  among  lofty  mountain-tops,  and  is 
itself  some  three  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  The  pine- 
fringed  crests  around  form  the  edge  of  the  basin,  the 
slopes  being  an  unbroken  mass  of  forest,  except  on  the 
north,  where  a  huge,  bare,  rocky  bluff  rises  about  eight 
hundred  feet  into  the  air. 

When  the  sun  had  disappeared  behind  the  western 
mountain  crest,  the  scene  was  exceedingly  beautiful.  The 
lonely  pond  was  a  mirror,  all  wind  had  gone  down,  and  a 
soft  darkness  seemed  to  fill  the  basin  in  which  it  la}', 
while  up  above  and  down  below  the  water,  and  all  around 
us,  sun-lit  peaks  were  standing  out  in  a  clear  blue  sky. 

I  sat  down  on  my  floating  island  of  pine  boughs  to 
watch  Dupont — for  I  believe  I  am  sincere  in  saying  that 
I  enjoy  seeing  another  man  throw  a  fly,  if  he  is  a  good 
and  graceful  sportsman,  quite  as  much  as  doing  it  myself; 
and  there  is  no  man's  casting  I  like  to  see  so  well  as  my 
friend  Dupont's.  The  lake  was  crowded  with  small  fish, 
so  that  at  every  cast  from  one  to  a  dozen  would  rise. 
They  were  four-ounce  fish,  capital  for  the  table,  but  not 
what  we  wanted.  At  length,  as  he  sent  his  tail  fly  over 
toward  the  lily  pads,  there  came  that  swift  rush  and  swirl 
in  the  water  that  is  such  music  to  the  sportsman's  ears, 
and  then  the  slender  Norris  rod  bent  as  two  pounds  of 
lively  trout-flesh,  fins  and  tail,  were  dragging  it  downward. 

If  you  desire  to  know  what  is  fishing  under  difficulties, 
try  a  light  rod  on  a  mountain  pond,  and  cast  from  a  log 
raft  covered  with  pine  boughs.  Dupont's  fish  fought  hard 
at  a  distance  for  a  few  minutes,  then  yielded  to  the  steady 
pressure  of  the  rod  in  a  skillful  hand,  and  came  slowly  in. 

Z 


354  J    Go    A- FISHING. 

But  when  he  saw  what  hurt  him — that  is,  when  he  saw 
the  humanity  on  the  raft — he  did  just  as  a  hundred  fish 
in  every  hundred  do,  rushed  for  the  only  dark  place  in 
sight,  and  that  was  under  the  raft.  Now  remember,  you 
who  do  not  understand  fly-fishing,  that  there  were  three 
flies  on  the  casting-line,  each  four  feet  from  the  other,  and 
the  trout  hooked  on  the  middle  one.  What  would  be  the 
natural  effect  of  such  a  rush  among  the  overhanging  pine 
boughs  ?  Of  course  two  hooks  would  make  themselves 
fast  somewhere,  for  a  hook  always  finds  solid  attachment 
where  it  is  not  intended  to  catch.  So  Dupont  watched 
his  fish,  and  when,  with  a  sharp  rush,  he  tore  off  the  first 
bobber  (which,  my  uneducated  friend,  means  the  upper 
fly,  nearest  the  rod),  succeeded  in  swinging  him  off  so 
that  his  next  rush  loosened  the  tail  fly,  and  then,  con- 
vinced that  the  dark  spot  under  the  raft  was  full  of  ene- 
mies, the  trout  went  away  into  deep  water.  Here  it  was 
easy  work  to  bring  him  to  the  landing-net,  and  I  lay  on 
my  pine-bough  island  and  saw  him  come  out,  shining  in 
gold  and  silver  and  jewels,  and  said,  "  A  fine  fish  !  Now 
do  it  again."  And  he  did  it  again  and  again,  and  the  day 
went  down  almost  into  darkness,  and  we  had  forgotten 
the  difficulties  and  dangers  of  the  untrodden  mountain- 
sides which  we  must  cross  on  our  way  homeward. 

The  twilight  lingered  long  up  there,  but  we  pushed  our 
rafts  to  the  shore  in  haste,  and  plunged  into  the  forest. 
I  think  I  have  before  alluded  to  our  misadventure  on  this 
evening.  We  had  traveled  this  route  often  enough  to 
know  it ;  but  this  evening  we  missed  the  proper  line  at 
starting,  and  the  effect  of  that  little  error  well-nigh  proved 
a  very  serious  matter.  For  a  divergence  of  a  few  rods  at 
the  commencement  widened  to  a  fourth  of  a  mile  by  the 
time  we  reached  the  mountain-top,  and  instead  of  our 


A    BREAK- NECK    DESCENT.  355 

mossy  descent — steep  enough,  but  easy  because  \ve  knew 
it — we  found  ourselves  suddenly  on  the  edge  of  a  preci- 
pice. Below  us  the  descent  for  full  five  hundred  feet  was 
a  vast  pile  of  rocks  but  a  few  degrees  out  from  the  per- 
pendicular. It  was  too  late  to  turn  back,  for  the  night 
was  already  coming  on.  We  had  not  fifteen  minutes 
of  twilight  left.  So  we  commenced  the  far  iromfacilis 
descent.  It  was  a  break-neck  or  break-leg  operation. 
Dropping  from  rock  to  rock,  sliding  down  sharp  inclines, 
catching  here  and  there  at  branches  of  trees  or  shrubs 
that  gave  way  with  us  and  let  us  fall  into  holes  among  the 
stones,  out  of  which  we  climbed,  to  fall  again  and  again 
into  similar  openings — how  we  reached  the  bottom  of  that 
descent  safely  I  can  not  imagine.  At  the  moment  we 
laughed  at  our  scrape  and  scrapes,  but  when  we  reached 
more  sure  footing  and  a  less  precipitous  slope  of  the 
mountain  we  paused  for  a  long  breath,  and  looked  into 
each  other's  faces  before  we  pushed  on  in  the  dense  un- 
der-brush. An  occasional  look  at  the  compass  by  the 
light  of  a  match — for  it  was  now  dark — kept  us  on  the 
right  course — east  half  north — until  we  heard  before  us 
the  welcome  dash  of  the  Pemigewasset  over  his  rocky 
bed  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  The  road  could  not  be 
far  beyond  it,  and  crossing  the  river  on  a  fallen  tree,  we 
pressed  on,  and  emerged  at  last,  with  no  small  satisfac- 
tion, on  the  track  of  civilization. 

The  silence  which  filled  the  valley  at  the  foot  of  Mount 
Lafayette  as  we  came  into  the  clearing  was  oppressive. 
I  never  knew  the  forest  so  still.  No  bird,  no  insect,  no 
living  animal  uttered  a  sound.  There  was  no  wind  to 
move  the  trees.  The  voice  of  the  river  was  inaudible, 
for  it  flows  gently  by  this  opening.  I  sat  down  by  the 
road-side  to  gain  breath,  more  exhausted  by  the  descent 


3$6  I    GO    A-FISHING. 

than  I  had  been  by  the  ascent  of  the  mountain.  Up  above 
us,  between  the  tree-tops,  was  a  narrow  line  of  sky,  sprin- 
kled with  bright  stars,  that  shone  as  you  have  sometimes 
seen  them  on  a  winter  night. 

While  we  sat  there  a  soft  breeze  from  the  south  began 
to  steal  up  the  valley,  and  then,  borne  on  the  gentle  air, 
I  heard  from  far  below  the  sound  of  the  river  vexed 
among  rocks,  and  dashing  down  heavy  falls,  but  the 
sound  was  not  angry  ;  it  was  musical  and  mournful ;  it 
was  the  sound  of  mingled  praise  and  prayer  in  some  dis- 
tant place  of  worship,  as  I  have  heard  the  great  organ  at 
Freiburg,  when  late  at  night  I  have  been  standing  on  the 
bridge  over  the  chasm. 

The  horses  were  not  waiting  for  us,  though  we  were  a 
half- hour  beyond  the  appointed  time.  As  we  learned 
afterward,  the  boy  who  had  been  sent  with  them  waited 
in  the  lonesome  road  until,  in  the  gloom,  the  trunks  of 
trees  began  to  look  like  men,  bushes  became  ghosts, 
stumps  seemed  to  him  wild  beasts,  and  the  darkness 
frightened  him.  So  the  poor  little  fellow,  after  resisting 
the  terror  that  crept  over  him  as  long  as  he  could,  yielded 
at  last,  and  drove  home  as  fast  as  the  horses  would  drag 
him.  We  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  foot  it.  It  was  no 
wonder  the  boy  was  frightened  in  that  deep  valley.  As 
we  walked  up  the  road  we  several  times  saw  groups  of 
men  ahead  of  us,  which  wholly  vanished  as  we  approached 
them.  Once  I  saw  a  horse  standing  by  the  road-side,  and 
Dupont  saw  it  too,  and  we  hurried  on,  thinking  to  find 
old  Jack  and  the  wagon,  but  there  was  no  horse  there  ; 
only  trunks  of  trees,  and  the  starlight  creeping  through 
and  around  them. 

Again  we  sat  down  for  awhile  on  a  great  rock  by  the 
road-side,  and  listened,  if  we  might  perhaps  hear  the 


THE    MEMORY    OF    PRAYER.  357 

coming  wheels.  But  all  was  silent ;  only  that  sound  of 
the  river  came  up  the  valley,  like  the  murmur  of  many 
voices  in  prayer. 

"  It  is  as  if  all  the  dead  that  lie  in  the  valley  were 
praying  together  in  some  old  church  down  yonder,"  said 
Dupont. 

"  Do  you  think  there  is  very  much  dust  of  humanity 
here  in  the  valley  ?" 

"  They  say  the  earth's  surface  has  been  used  for  graves, 
so  that  the  dead  lie  under  every  foot  of  ground." 

"  That's  all  nonsense.  If  all  the  men  and  women  and 
children  that  have  died  on  the  earth  from  the  creation 
till  this  day  were  gathered,  living  now,  and  the  breath  of 
the  Lord  should  sweep  them  into  Lake  Superior,  they 
might  sink  to  the  bottom  and  find  ample  space  to  lie  side 
by  side,  and  have  plenty  of  room  to  turn  if  their  slumber 
should  be  restless.  If  the  judgment  were  set,  and  all 
mankind  called  to  stand  up  and  answer,  they  could  be 
ranged  within  sound  of  a  cannon.  I  don't  think  that 
many  men  lie  in  this  valley.  The  dust  of  the  earth  that 
has  been  man  is,  after  all,  very  little  of  it.  It  is  not  that 
which  hallows  ground  so  much  as  the  memory  of  man's 
life  and  love  and  suffering,  and  approach  to  his  God. 
Old  places  of  worship  are  always  full  of  sacred  associa- 
tions. Even  an  old  heathen  temple  is  a  very  solemn 
place.  How  strange  and  sweet  among  our  treasures  are 
memories  of  prayer  !  Did  you  never  linger  in  an  old  ca- 
thedral after  the  vesper  service,  and  find  the  atmosphere 
full  of  holy  calm,  as  if  the  golden  vials  of  the  elders  had 
not  yet  inclosed  the  prayers  of  that  day?  If  there  be 
any  thing  which  hallows  ground  on  this  poor  earth  of  ours, 
it  is  that  here  or  there  man  or  woman  or  child  has  prayed. 
If  I  did  not  believe  that  little  six  feet  of  rock  in  the  old 


358  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

church  in  Jerusalem  to  be  the  rock  on  which  the  feet  of 
the  Lord  first  rested  when  he  awoke  from  the  slumber 
of  atonement,  I  would  nevertheless  revere  it  as  the  holi- 
est place  on  earth,  because  more  knees  have  pressed  it  in 
penitential  prayer  than  any  other  spot  in  all  the  world. 
It  seems  to  me  that  much  good  paper  and  ink  have  been 
wasted  of  late  in  discussing  this  subject  of  prayer,  and 
answering  a  queer  proposition  of  some  one  who,  wise  in 
certain  ways,  is  ignorant  from  lack  of  experience  in  this 
matter.  I  have  great  pity  for  the  man  whose  life  lacks 
this  experience  of  prayer  and  its  answers.  For  such  a 
man,  knowing  nothing  of  the  power  of  faith,  is  like  a 
blind  man  who  knows  nothing  of  color.  I  would  not  at- 
tempt to  explain  it  to  him,  for  I  could  not.  He  can  not 
understand  the  terms  I  use,  nor  can  I  explain  them  to 
him.  He  will  never  be  wiser  for  any  explanation  of  mine, 
nor  until  he  meets  the  Master  in  the  way,  and  is  directed 
to  some  Siloam,  where  he  may  wash  his  eyes  and  see. 
Then  he  will  know  all  about  it.  Meantime  he  laughs  at 
me ;  and  I  let  him  laugh,  for  it  does  me  no  harm.  Strange 
that  wagon  does  not  come." 

"This  prospect  of  going  home  on  foot  is  not  just  the 
thing  after  our  experience  on  the  mountain." 

"  No,  not  the  thing  at  all,  especially  with  a  strained 
ankle." 

"  What,  yours  ?" 

"  A  little  so,  I  fancy.     But  let's  be  moving." 

So  we  walked  along,  I  limping  a  little. 

"  Certainly  this  is  not  what  we  bargained  for.  Where 
can  that  boy  be  ?  I'm  in  a  hurry  to  be  at  home.  When 
home  is  bright  and  pleasant,  it's  never  the  thing  to  be 
going  there  slowly.  We  are  always  in  a  hurry  when  our 
faces  are  once  set  homeward.  You  and  I  have  been 


WALKING   AND   TALKING.  359 

a-fishing  in  this  world  a  good  while,  on  all  sorts  of  waters, 
and  have  taken  more  or  less,  in  the  main  with  quiet  con- 
tentment. What  is  life,  after  all,  but  just  going  a-fishing 
all  the  time,  casting  flies  on  many  rivers  and  lakes,  and 
going  quietly  home  as  the  day  is  ending?" 

"  Don't  waste  time  with  any  more  moralizing,  Effendi. 
What  we  have  before  us  is  now  to  get  ourselves  home  in 
as  sound  condition  as  possible." 

"  Well,  can't  we  talk  as  we  go  along  ?  That's  another 
of  the  similarities  between  life  and  a  day's  fishing;  as  we 
go  home  we  like  to  talk,  and  generally  to  talk  over  the 
day's  events.  Your  basket  is  heavy,  but  you  carry  it 
lightly,  because  you  killed  those  large  trout  in  the  twi- 
light. If  it  had  fewer  trout  in  it,  it  would  feel  heavier. 
Life's  work  well  done  makes  a  light  load  to  carry  home." 

"  Is  your  basket  heavy  ?" 

"  To-night  ?  Yes.  It's  not  half  full,  but  I  am  half  in- 
clined to  empty  it  among  the  bushes.  If  it  were  not  wast- 
ing the  trout,  I  would.  Here  comes  a  wagon  or  a  coach, 
or  something — perhaps  we  can  get  a  ride." 

It  was  a  late  extra  from  Plymouth  on  the  way  to  the 
Profile,  and  it  was  loaded  to  excess.  There  was  scarcely 
room  for  our  baskets  of  fish,  and  none  for  us.  But  the 
driver  relieved  us  of  our  loads,  and  we  plodded  on. 

"  There  you  have  a  simile  again.  Any  one  will  carry 
your  earnings  for  you.  Plenty  of  people  go  by  you  on 
the  road  of  life  ready  and  willing  to  relieve  you  of  the  re- 
sults of  your  labor,  but  they  don't  care  to  take  you  up 
and  help  you  along." 

"That's  not  fair.  These  people  would  have  carried  us 
along,  but  they  had  no  room ;  and  they  took  the  trout  in 
pure  good-will,  intending  to  restore  them  to  us  when  we 
are  at  home." 


360  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

"  Possibly — possibly — but  there  is  a  great  deal  of  self- 
ishness in  the  world  that  we  don't  know  of." 

"  Come,  come  Effendi — you  are  surly  and  cross.  If  you 
did  break  the  second  joint  of  your  favorite  rod  on  a  three- 
ounce  trout,  you  need  not  be  in  an  ill  humor  with  all  the 
world  because  of  it.  Let's  walk  faster." 

"  Walk  on  alone,  if  you  want  to ;  but  I'm  going  to  sit 
down  on  this  rock  and  stay  here  till  Jack  comes,  if  it  isn't 
till  morning.  My  ankle  won't  stand  any  more." 

And  down  I  sat.  One  can't  be  always  cheery ;  and 
somehow  there  came  over  me  that  evening  a  gloom  that 
I  could  not  at  once  shake  off.  For,  to  say  truth,  I  was 
thoroughly  used  up,  and  had  strained  my  ankle  badly  in 
the  plunge  down  the  mountain.  When  one  is  weary,  a 
slight  ache  is  a  serious  impediment.  Dupont  yielded  at 
last  to  my  persuasions,  or  rather  to  his  own  conviction 
that  I  must  be  sent  for  if  I  were  to  get  to  the  hotel  that 
night,  and  so  pushed  on,  leaving  me  alone  in  the  forest. 

The  moon  had  by  this  time  come  up  above  the  south- 
ern ridge  of  Mount  Lafayette,  and  was  pouring  a  flood  of 
silver  light  into  the  valley  of  the  Pemigewasset.  The 
light  stole  down  among  the  trees,  scarcely  reaching  the 
ground  any  where,  but  producing  that  well-known  effect  of 
moonlight — the  entire  transformation  of  objects — so  that 
there  seemed  to  be  life  and  even  motion  every  where 
around  me. 

I  lit  a  cigar  and  stretched  myself  out  on  the  rock.  Im- 
prudent ?  Yes,  but  comfortable.  The  great  trunks  of 
trees  around  me  began  to  look  like  the  forest  of  columns 
in  Karnak.  I  wondered  whether  it  were  really  true  that 
only  a  couple  of  miles  from  me  at  that  instant  were  hun- 
dreds of  people  in  a  great  hotel,  representatives  of  the 
civilization  of  the  century,  gathered  in  a  vast  drawing- 


AN    ANCIENT    LADY.  361 

room,  blazing  with  gas-light,  brilliant  dresses,  jewelry,  and 
all  the  adornments  of  modern  life.  It  seemed  odd  to  be 
lying  on  a  rock  in  an  old  temple  and  yet  so  near  to  the 
modern  world.  I  asked  myself,  are  they  after  all  very 
different  people,  that  gay  crowd  at  the  Profile,  from  the 
men  and  women  who  thronged  the  old  temple  ?  We 
people  of  the  nineteenth  century  are  guilty  of  folly  in  our 
self-admiration,  and  vastly  err  in  placing  ourselves  far  in 
advance  of  all  ages.  Steam-engines  and  telegraphs  and 
printing-presses  are  mighty  powers,  but  the  day  and  the 
place  are  far  distant  from  which  man  will  look  back  on 
this  little  world  and  judge  impartially  of  the  various  evi- 
dences of  various  civilizations.  Even  now  we  can  see  bar- 
barism in  our  own  governments,  and  in  our  own  houses,  if 
we  will  but  look  at  ourselves.  I  doubt  very  much  whether 
the  Egyptian  lady  from  whose  head  I  once  took  a  curl  of 
hair  was  not  as  refined,  as  civilized,  as  polished  three  thou- 
sand years  ago  as  any  lady  in  the  Profile  House  to-night  ? 
Here  lies  the  curl  before  me  as  I  write — a  dark  brown 
lock,  which  lights  in  the  sun  to-day  as  it  lit  when  she  was 
living  ages  ago.  Her  head  was  covered  with  curls.  Be- 
fore they  wrapped  her  face  in  the  grave-clothes,  loving 
fingers  twined  all  the  dark  masses  of  her  hair  into  just 
such  curls  as  she  loved  to  wear,  speaking,  we  should  say 
in  our  day,  of  youth,  gayety,  grace,  and  loveliness.  For  a 
curl  speaks.  Around  it,  as  it  lies  there,  is  a  halo,  from 
which  I  can  hear  voices  uttering  many  evidences  of  civil- 
ization. She  lived  in  luxury;  she  wore  purple  and  fine 
linen  ;  she  had  jewels  on  her  fingers,  and,  though  she 
never  imitated  the  civilization  of  modern  Africa,  which 
wears  rings  in  the  nose,  she  was  guilty  of  the  barbarism 
of  piercing  holes  in  her  ears  whereon  to  hang  gold  and 
jewels  to  be  looked  at  and  admired. 


362  I    GO    A -FISHING. 

I  never  found  the  head  of  a  dead  \voman  in  Egypt 
adorned  with  false  hair,  but  I  have  seen  abundant  speci- 
mens of  it  from  the  tombs,  where  it  had  been  laid  with 
other  ornaments,  as  if  perchance  it  might  be  needed  in 
the  far-off  morning.  And  this  curl  adorned  a  head  which 
in  life  had  every  claim  to  civilization  which  any  lady  pos- 
sesses who  may  read  these  words,  and  those  locks  of  hair 
have  been  seen  in  halls  whose  splendor  surpassed  our 
Western  dreams,  among  statesmen  and  soldiers,  from 
whom,  if  we  could  unseal  their  lips,  \ve  might  learn  les- 
sons of  civilization  unknown  to  us  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. 

But  what  was  that  yonder  in  the  forest  which  startled 
me  so  that  I  sat  up  on  the  rock  and  looked  intently  into 
the  strange  cross  lights  of  the  moon  among  the  bushes  ? 
Who  was  that,  standing  beyond  the  great  column  by  the 
obelisk?  and  that?  and  that?  Was  it  a  breeze  swaying 
the  dogwood  and  moose-berry  bushes,  or  were  those  ver- 
ily ghosts  ?  A  weary  fisherman,  resting  on  his  way  home 
may  well  see  visions  in  such  a  lonesome  forest  and  such 
a  moonlight.  Face  after  face  looked  at  me  around  that 
old  column.  It  was  the  trunk  of  a  mighty  birch,  but  it 
looked  more  like  the  stone  reared  by  Osirei.  There  was 
visible  an  old  man's  face.  Alas,  for  the  old  man.  The 
years  that  have  been  counted  and  stored  away  in  God's 
memory  and  the  memory  of  men  since  he  departed,  have 
made  those  once  solemn  and  commanding  features  dust, 
while  they  have  drawn  these  lines  on  mine.  He  was  the 
guide  of  my  boyhood,  the  beloved  companion  of  my  ma- 
turing years.  His  voice  was  exceedingly  musical,  as  he 
read  aloud  to  me  his  favorite  passages  in  Homer,  and 
bade  me  translate  while  he  recited  from  memory  the  im- 
passioned eloquence  of  the  Medea.  He  seemed  to  be 


OLD    FRIENDS.  363 

wondering  what  his  boy  was  doing  there  on  that  rock,  his 
eyes  flashing  back  the  light  out  of  his  own.  And  while  I 
sat  there,  he  vanished  and  another  stood  in  his  place. 
Old  Simon  Gray,  who  taught  me  how  to  catch  trout  forty 
years  ago,  the  good  old  friend  of  my  childhood,  looked 
around  the  column,  and  I  caught  the  old  smile  on  his  face. 
How  my  heart  leaped  to  see  the  good  old  man.  How  I 
longed  to  ask  him  if  the  chestnut  locks  of  his  beloved 
wife  lay  clustering  on  his  breast  in  the  land  of  his  present 
abiding  !  And  though  he  spoke  not  a  word,  the  old  man 
knew  my  thoughts  and  answered  me :  "  She  is  here,  the 
beloved  of  olden  times,"  and  as  he  spoke  she  looked  over 
his  shoulder.  It  was  strange,  the  contrast.  I  had  never 
known  her,  for  she  died  long  before  I  was  born,  but  I  had 
often  heard  him  speak  of  her  young  beauty,  and  now  they 
stood  before  me.  He  was  old,  very  old,  and  his  white 
locks  lay  thin  on  his  head,  and  the  smiles  of  heaven  rested 
among  the  deep  harsh  lines  of  sad  age.  But  she  was  in 
her  young,  pure,  matronly  beauty;  and  her  eye,  blue  as  the 
skies  of  summer  nights,  and  flashing  as  the  stars,  gleamed 
with  a  joy  that  can  not  be  described.  Her  long  curls  of 
chestnut  flowed  over  her  neck  and  down  her  shoulders, 
like  a  river  of  rich,  deep,  magnificent  beauty,  through  which 
glimpses  of  her  temples  seemed  like  diamonds.  And  she 
looked  at  the  old  man,  and  did  not  seem  to  think  him  old, 
but  lovingly  (how  lovingly  !)  she  laid  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  and  wound  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  led 
him  away  out  of  sight.  And  when  they  were  gone,  for  a 
little  while  there  were  only  bushes  swinging  in  the  wind, 
and  now  and  then  the  moan  of  a  tree  that  had  fallen 
against  another,  and  complained  as  the  rising  wind  moved 
it.  And  then,  down  the  slope,  among  the  trees,  where  a 
silver  stream  of  water  ran  over  rocks  hastening  toward 


364  I    GO   A- FISHING. 

the  Pemigewasset,  I  saw  a  vision  of  exceeding  loveliness, 
which  you  might  have  thought  the  rising  mist  above  the 
water,  but  which  revealed  to  me  a  face  of  rare  and  per- 
fect beauty ;  and  a  smile  of  intense  joy  was  on  those 
matchless  features,  as  if  they  had  brought  with  them  a 
memory  of  the  light  of  heaven.  I  could  not  count  the 
years  since  the  dust  was  heaped  over  those  closed  eyes 
now  bright  with  the  light  of  blessedness.  I  could  not  num- 
ber the  moons  that  have  waxed  and  waned  since  those 
lips,  closed,  close  shut,  were  pressed  with  their  last  ca- 
resses. And  now  eyes  and  lips  were  smiling  the  lan- 
guage of  heaven. 

It  was  a  vision  of  blessed  days.  I  did  not  love  Maud 

.  But  my  friend,  my  almost  brother,  did,  and  his 

love  was  the  adoration  of  boyhood.  And  she  returned  it. 
And  if  there  be  among  the  dark  books  which  the  record- 
ing angel  has  gathered  in  his  fearful  library,  one  page  of 
white  glory,  on  that  page  will  be  found  written  in  living 
letters,  letters  that  will  live  forever,  the  story  of  that  gold- 
en love.  It  perished  !  Passed  out  of  life,  out  of  earth, 
out  of  the  sun  and  moonshine  of  this  lower  world,  but  who 
dare  say  it  passed  not  into  some  starry  home,  where  God 
hath  appointed  his  children  to  love  on  forever  and  for- 
ever !  aye,  forever !  That  is  the  word,  written  on  the  hu- 
man heart  in  letters  of  fire,  of  glory,  or  of  agony. 

They  died  on  the  same  day,  though  a  thousand  miles 
apart.  The  whitest  wings  of  the  angels  wafted  her  home- 
ward, and  who  shall  tell  the  joy  of  meeting  him  there  ! 
She  was  brilliant,  starry  in  the  splendor  of  her  young  pure 
beauty,  and  more  brilliant,  more  starlike  now,  as  she  look- 
ed at  me,  and  turned  her  face  archly  away  with  that 
smile  on  it  as  she  looked  back  into  the  forest  and  seemed 
to  say  to  me,  "  Yes,  he  is  there  ;"  and  I  gazed  and  gazed 


GOING    HOME.  365 

into  the  forest,  to  see,  if  I  could,  my  old  friend,  the  boy 
with  whom  I  had  fished  the  mountain  brooks  a  hundred 
times  in  the  sunniest  days  of  life ;  but  I  could  not  see 
him  yet,  and — 

"  What !  asleep,  Effendi  ?  Well,  if  you  don't  pay  for 
this  with  all  manner  of  aches  and  pains." 

It  was  Dupont,  returned  with  Jack  and  the  buck-board, 
and  he  had  found  me  sound  asleep  on  the  rock. 

And  as  the  good  horse  Jack  went  up  the  road  at  a  tre- 
mendous rate,  I  failed  to  answer  very  clearly  the  ques- 
tions he  put  as  to  my  folly  in  thus  going  to  sleep  in  damp 
clothes  on  a  rock  in  the  open  air.  For  I  was  thinking  of 
home,  and  who  would  be  there  to  welcome  me. 

"  Better  than  walking  this,  isn't  it,  especially  as  the 
moon  is  clouded  now  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  on  foot  or  in  a  wagon,  it's  pleasant  anyhow 
to  be  going  home.  Always  pleasant,  when  the  work  of 
the  day  is  all  done,  when  the  sunlight  of  the  day  is  no 
longer  bright,  nor  the  twilight  soft  and  beautiful,  when  the 
darkness  has  settled  down  and  we  walk  only  by  the  light 
of  stars. 

"And  there's  no  doubt  about  it,  when  one  looks  up 
yonder  through  the  forest -road,  through  the  tree -tops, 
through  the  gloom,  and  thinks  of  the  far-off  home  and 
the  waiting  welcome — there's  no  mistake  about  it,  my 
boy,  one  can't  help  wishing  he  might  be  sent  for  with 
swift  horses." 


THE    END. 


BY  W.  C   PRIME. 


I  GO  A-FISHING. 

I  Go  a-Fishing.     By  WILLIAM  C.  PRIME.     Crown  8vo,  Cloth, 
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DUE  2  WKS  FROM  DA 


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